


Drive

by thelogicoftaste



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF!Derek, Getaway-Driver!Derek, Kid Fic, Kid!Scott, M/M, Mechanic!Derek, Movie Fusion, daddy!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All that Derek does is drive.</p><p>That's it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huh. Did I mention that I begin other fics when I'm supposed to be writing my main fic? Because I do and I have. 
> 
> As you will have probably noticed, this fic is based on the film Drive by Nicolas Winding Refn, with Ryan Gosling and Carrey Mulligan. You don't need to have seen the film to understand this as it's pretty much straight forward. 
> 
> I'm working off of the original script itself (as well as the finished movie) but I'm changing some things for my own (Sterek-y) reasons. 
> 
> Of course, Teen Wolf and Drive do not belong to me (sad as it may be) they belong to the original creators Jeff Davis, Nicolas Winding Refn (director), Hossein Amini (Scriptwriter) and James Sallis (Author) as well as all the affiliates of MTV, all of whom created these wonderful series - thanks be to you, Ladies and Gents :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy! The next parts should be up in a few days! :)

-

All that Derek does is drive.

That's it.

There are one hundred thousand streets in Los Angeles, but the criminals, the robbers, lowlives and the dealers that he works with don’t need to know the routes.

The only thing that they have to do is give him a time and a place. He, in turn, gives them a five-minute window; anything happens in those five minutes and he’s theirs, no matter what.

Anything happens a minute either side of that and they’re on their own.

It’s nearing ten o’clock at night this time and the streets are quiet, or as quiet as they get in Los Angeles. The creak of Derek’s leather gloves over the steering wheel and the steady sounds of the car rolling over the tarmac are the only things to accompany the sounds of the LA Clippers taking a pounding from the New York Knicks, the game chatter drifting from the car radio.

Derek’s only half listening, more focused on the road, as neon lights pass over his face and float over the leather seats. His green eyes are impassive, and there’s something almost melancholy in his unwavering gaze as he lets other cars overpass him.

He’s quiet, he's calm and he’s ready. He’s never particularly questioned why he first got into this line of business, but he did and so now, he drives.

And he likes it.

The basketball game is approaching the end of the third quarter by the time that Derek cruises past rows of dingy toy stores on 3rd Street. For this particular job he’s behind the wheel of a mediocre, ordinary Impala he’d got from Bobby’s car shop; the car is unimpressive, a silver Chevy from 2008, the most popular car in the state of California – ensuring that nobody will be looking at him.

Derek glances at his watch quickly before checking his mirror and turning into a side street.

He parks at the designated spot, outside an electronics superstore that dominates the deserted street, taking care to park with a good view of the entrance. The street is illuminated by pale yellow lamps that glow ominously above him, and on the radio the basketball commentator is getting more and more excited.

Derek reaches beneath his seat and pulls out a small handheld scanner; he switches it on and tunes it to the right frequency and a moment later, the crackle of the police’s dispatches intersperse with the game commentary.

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees a man and a woman approach. Clad all in black, they move carefully under the cover of darkness, crossing the street and creeping towards the building. Derek is expecting them, so he hardly moves as he watches them cut through the fence of the building with bolt-cutters.

He watches as they pull on their mask, as the man pulls out a shotgun and blasts the lock plate of the front door. The alarm is shrill and immediate, carrying over even to where Derek sits in the car.

Adrenaline bleeds into his bloodstream but the only thing that he does is clasp his wristwatch around one of the thick leathered spokes of the wheel; he turns it on and he waits.

The stopwatch instantly fills the car with the noise of its continuous ticking, building up into the rhythm of the police scanner crackling and the on-going game commentary on the radio.

Derek keeps careful watch of his surroundings.

And in the background, beyond the insulating glass panels of the car Derek sits in, there is the sound of a police siren blaring.

The storefront is hidden in shadow, and Derek can’t fathom what’s going on inside but when he next looks at his stopwatch, almost three minutes have passed.

One of the masked figures emerges from the depths of the building with an inelegant crash, carrying a duffel bag as he hurries over. Derek leans in between the seats to open the door and the man get in without a word.

There’s no sign of the other robber as the clock ticks up to four minutes. Derek’s companion, sitting agitatedly in the back, starts to look nervous for his partner, his muttering loud in the face of Derek’s quietness.

But Derek doesn’t betray even a hint of nerves, heart beating steady and careful in his chest cavity. There are four and a half minutes on his stopwatch, another thirty seconds more and he’s on his way.

No matter what.

The other robber makes it eventually, appearing from the shadows as her feet tumble over the asphalt, running as quickly as she can towards the getaway car, sliding into the backseat. She jumps into the car with a few mere seconds to spare, door hardly closing before Derek is screeching off.

Derek thunders off, running over the 1st Street Bridge, but then he eases his foot off the gas and slows to a steady speed. In the back the two-armed robbers rip off their masks.

Derek studies them in his rear view mirror; it’s the first time he’s had a proper look at them. The man is tall, sitting just shy of comfortable in the confines of the car; he’s big and burly with his hair cropped close to his head and his skin a deep, rich brown. The girl by contrast is fair and slim, her brown hair tied up in a ponytail and a sharp tilt to her mouth.

They’re kids, Derek realises, no older than twenty at the most. They’re obviously doing this out of necessity rather than greed, and they have a solid, intimate relationship going by the tightness of the girl’s fingers around the guy’s wrist, how his gaze runs over her, fond but exhausted.

Derek turns his attention back to the road, granting them privacy in their moment as he turns right on to the next street.

The scanner crackles into life just then, and Derek turns a more attentive ear to it.

The operator’s voice, calm and precise, repeats once more, “Suspects headed Eastbound on 1st Street … Driving a Silver Impala …”

Derek swings into a different street now, handling the corner a little too sharply as he heads back in the same direction he came from. On the radio, the police announce that the airships have been dispatched.

From the windshield Derek can see the glittering lights of downtown against the dark night, and hovering right there, between the neon-green glow of the skyscrapers, is the distinct and unmistakeable glint of a police helicopter.

Derek turns off his headlights, weaving in and out of the industrial alleyways and side streets as his two companions in the back watch in tense and uncomfortable silence.

The quick quirk of the corner of Derek’s mouth is unavoidable, quiet smugness as the police scanner reveals the police’s inability to locate them. The kids in the back look relieved, slumping back against the seats, though it’s highly premature seeing as a lone police car glides past the end of the alleyway, its headlights also turned off.

Derek gently taps the brakes of the car, sliding to a stop behind a parked van. He stays there for a moment, leather-clad fingers tapping easily against the steering wheel.

He idles for a moment, mind whirring with routes and possible ways to make it safely out of this. In the end he has to make a quick decision. It’s a high-risk strategy, but it’s the best choice Derek has right now; so he eases the Impala forward, turning in the same direction as the cop cruiser.

He follows the squad car at a distance, knowing that the other cruisers won’t be checking the same route. Derek lurks in the shadows behind the police car, following as the car makes its way through the dimly lit industrial zone, unaware that it’s being shadowed.

Derek leans over, turns the radio up just slightly, listening to the basketball commentary. He tells the two kids to get down, and they do so immediately, curling around each other as they flatten themselves to the back seat and hide from view.

Ahead, the police car Derek had been following turns left and disappears from view.

Derek slows down too, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he anticipates the next obstacle. In the distance, he sees the piercing beam of yet another cruise. They’re at opposites ends of the crossroads, idling patiently at the traffic lights and from the scanner, the dispatch crackles, “Suspect vehicle in sight, … she seems to have only one passenger.”

The seconds tick by accompanied only by the murmur of the radio and the scanner; above the traffic lights switch from red, to amber and finally to a bright zesty green.

The dispatch centre answers back, “Check her out anyway.”

Derek floors the gas, speeding straight towards the squad car with a screech of his tires. The kid robbers are too shocked to even protest, clinging both to each other and the back seat as they lie there watching the full brightness of the squad car’s headlights get closer and closer, flooding interior of the car.

There’s a small underpass below the 7th Street Bridge, and Derek slides the car under the safety of it just before the squad car reaches them. The roar of the Impala is loud and grinding in the confines of the tunnel, and the darkness of the interior is characterised by interspersions of light, moving quickly from black darkness to the gloomy yellow, courtesy of dirty lamps fixed to the ceiling.

They emerge in the meatpacking district, with rows and rows of delivery trucks parked outside their respective factories. Derek cruises quickly but cautiously down the street, though it seems to be deserted. The tension inside the car is rife, no doubt enhanced by the low noise of the police scanner and the droning basketball commentary.

Derek drives until he flows in seamlessly with the steady flow of traffic on Broadway, falling in behind the other cars, tells the two kids they can get up. He’s not nervous at all, the passing head lamps pass over his face show no trace of emotion in his eyes, even when he spots a patrol car approaching in the opposite direction.

He swerves sharply into the next street as soon as the cop in the squad car notices them, gunning around the block as he builds up speed. He bursts out onto Pico and threads through the other vehicles on the road. Above him he can hear the dull rumble of the police chopper, it’s almost above him, swinging its search-beam back and forth like a pendulum.

Derek pushes the car as far as he can get it to go, but he can’t seem to outrun the helicopter. He gets spotted, blue light flooding the asphalt around him as he guns down Figueroa, the scanner crackling, “All units in pursuit,” over and over again.

He doesn’t panic though, in contrast to the two kids in his backseat, he merely turns his attention back to the basketball game. Derek rolls towards the sparkling lights of the Staples Centre, punching in an all-season ticket into the barrier of the terraced parking lot.

Derek pulls in seamlessly into a free parking space amongst the almost full lot, through the doors and the elevators, dozens of fans are already streaming out towards their cars.

Without even a glance back at the two kids in the back, Derek steps out of the car, closes the door and merges in with the crowd. It’s chaotic, absolutely chaotic as the fans flood into the place, cars already pulling out of their spaces.

He pulls on a Clippers cap, falling in seamlessly with the crowd as he shrugs out of his leather jacket and delicately hangs it from the tips of his gloved fingers over his shoulder.

The game has served its purpose and outside the building the police are waiting, stopping anything that looks like an Impala, shining their flashlights into the windows.

Wearing his clippers hat and on foot, Derek walks calmly past them and makes his getaway.

-

Derek sees him when he stands in the elevator as it slowly climbs up from the parking lot of his own building, it reaches the ground floor and the doors slide open. He finds himself face-to-face with the guy he’d seen a few nights prior, though he's not wearing the uniform he always seems to have on.

He’s tall and pale, broad shouldered with a mess of dark hair on his head and a smattering of moles dotting across his cheek. He’s wearing jeans and a grey sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal his strong, capable forearms and the dark hair over it. He looks to be only a handful of years younger than Derek himself.

The man seems a little startled to see Derek inside the elevator but he recovers quickly, smiling politely as he steps in.

He stands beside Derek, carrying a large grocery bag in his hand with milk and Fruit Loops balanced precariously on the top. Derek’s hand hovers over the elevator panel, “Which floor?”

“Fourth, please,” the man says, eyes cutting to Derek before quickly dropping away.

Derek presses the fourth floor button, even though it’s already lit, seeing as he’s heading there too. The doors shut quietly and the elevator begins its long groan of a journey upwards.

He sees, out of the periphery of his eyes, the guy take a glance at him, awkward in the silence. He breathes in deeply once and looks away, relieved as the elevator finally slows to a stop and the doors open.

Derek steps aside to let him out first and the man coughs, nodding, “Thanks.”

As they walk down the corridor, in the same direction and only a few feet apart, the man seems to be more aware of Derek’s presence than Derek seems of his. The man reaches the door to his apartment first, juggling the grocery bag to his other hand in order to fish out his keys.

Derek continues on to his apartment, not bothering to glance back.

-

The next time Derek sees him, it’s over two weeks later in a supermarket in Echo Park.

Bland music plays unhurriedly in the background as Derek walks past the vast collection of instant coffee and, out of the corner of his eyes, he catches sight of the man as he traverses the store.

At the very end of the aisle is his neighbour, his tall neighbour who is running a hand through his hair as his pretty brown eyes scan the shelves and he browses through the confectionary section.

Standing in front of him is a young boy, of about six or seven, with dark curls and dark eyes, dressed in a superhero tee-shirt that is just a little bit too big on his small frame, board shorts and black high-tops.

He grabs a multi-pack of Snickers and puts it in the shopping trolley he’s walking beside, small fingers tangled in the wired bars of the basket.

The man calmly picks it out, replaces it on the shelf, instead he takes a solitary bar for the kid.

“ _Dad_ ,” the kid grumbles, though he takes the offered chocolate bar anyway.

“We’re being healthy, remember?” The guy playfully narrows his eyes at his kid, “You’re a sneaky monkey.”

The little boy’s answer is immediate, light and teasing as he hops on to the edge of the trolley, chocolate bar already forgotten as he dumps it into the basket “No, you’re a monkey.”

“You’re a monkey,” the man replies, carefully rolling the trolley down the aisle with his kid hanging off the edge.

They continue to tease each other, voices getting lower and lower until they’re whispering furtively to one another and the man is leaning over the expanse of the trolley to wrinkle his nose at the little boy.

When he straightens up, Derek can see nothing but fondness in his eyes, he tips his chin up, “Hey, tell me one thing.”

“I love you,” the kid says and his father grins. It’s obvious from their tone of voice that they do this often.

“I love _you_.”

Derek heads down another aisle before the man or the kid can see him, preferring to keep himself to himself. 

Though it seems in vain, because he spots them once again as he heads out into the car park of the grocery store, holding a small bag of his own groceries.

The guy is bent over the open hood of an old blue Jeep, trying in vain to figure out what’s wrong with his engine. The little boy emerges from the side of the car and peers in too, trying to be helpful.

Evidently, he leans in a little too close because the man’s hand darts out to grab at the kid’s wrist.

“Scott, no,” he chides, frustration evident in his voice even as he pulls the kid to stand safely behind him. “You’ll get hurt.”

Derek hesitates, groceries sitting idle in their bag perched on top of his hood. All of his instincts are telling him to get in his car and drive away, but as he feels the man’s increasing irritation he can’t help himself, heading over to help not two seconds later.

The man looks over as Derek approaches, looking surprised at first before he smiles.

-

The jeep’s problem is not something that can be fixed right away, so instead Derek drives Stiles, as he’d introduced himself with a bashful smile and a hand scratching at the hair at the nape of his neck, and his little boy home.

By the time that they’re back at their apartment building and cruising upwards in the lift, Derek is holding both his and Stiles’ groceries and Scott is standing between them, staring blankly at him in the silence.  

He stares, stares, and stares into Derek’s unwavering gaze, until he finally blinks.

And then their staring contest is won and Scott’s face breaks into a defeated grin, he smacks a small hand to his face, dragging it over his cheek and letting out a small “Ah,” as he smiles.

Derek can’t quite help the uptick tugging of his mouth into a small answering smile.

He carries Stiles’ groceries into the kitchen for him, as the man flits over his living room, tidying away Scott’s toys and the colouring books left haphazardly on the table as he tries to instil a sense of organisation, muttering “sorry, sorry, sorry,” under his breath as he goes.

But Derek likes it, likes the way that Stiles and Scott’s house looks, cluttered and lived in, with pale green walls and the cream cabinetry and the plush fabric couches around the television. It makes a hell of a difference to Derek’s own Spartan accommodation a door down.

“Where do you want me to put them?” Derek asks, gesturing to the bags.

The movement proves unnecessary however; as Stiles is not even paying attention, too busy trying to arrange a stack of papers on the low coffee table as he simultaneously shoves wayward Lego pieces beneath the couch with his foot.

He looks up half a second later, a delayed reaction to Derek’s question, his cheeks are flushed and his mouth open as he stands a little straighter, “Huh? Oh. Just on the counter, thanks.”

Stiles heads over to the kitchen as Derek is placing the bags on the counter.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asks, breezing past him.

“I’m okay,” Derek says, eyebrows crinkling in mild confusion as Stiles reaches into the cupboard anyway.

“A glass of water?” Stiles continues, straining to reach for a glass, ass popping out over the counter, tight and full in the confines of his jeans.

Derek gets a little distracted, “Sure.”

Stiles pours Derek a glass of water and hands it to him, movements seeming quick and flurry even in the small space he occupies.

“Excuse me a second,” he says, and disappears out of one of the side doors before Derek even has a chance to protest.

Scott, for the most part, perches in front of Derek and stares at him fixedly. Stares for so long that Derek begins to feel a little uncomfortable, so he does the only thing he can think of.

He puts down the glass of water and reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a long piece of string from inside. Derek has Scott’s entire attention now, and the kid sways forward a little, round eyes on where Derek stretches the string between two fingers.

Derek tugs gently at the string, once, twice and then he holds up two distinct pieces of string.

When Stiles walks in, Scott is still staring at Derek, his face a picture of puzzlement as he reaches up to take the string from his fingers.

Stiles smiles, walking past Scott and dropping an absent hand over his son's head before he leans back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, “You just move to LA?”

“No,” Derek says, picking up his glass and taking a sip, watching as Scott leaves. “I’ve been here for a while.”

“And before that?”

Derek hesitates, words dithering on the tip of his tongue for a little while but he eventually settles on the vague, “Here and there.”

“So you’re just new here?” Stiles goes on. “In the apartment block, I mean.”

Derek nods, humming absently but Stiles just smiles, gentle and wide.

“Too many questions, huh?” he says. “I’ve been told I tend to do that.”

The smile that Derek offers him then is awkward to say the least, and he’s not quite to sure how to respond. He casts his eyes about the kitchen instead.

There are a few photographs scattered about the place, mostly of Stiles and Scott, pictures from when Scott was nothing but a gurgling baby, of Stiles and Scott with matching Mickey Mouse ears and Disneyland spread behind them, and of Scott at his first swim meet, held aloft in Stiles’ arms as he pumps his small fists up in victory and beams down at his proud father.

There’s one picture that catches Derek’s eye though, it’s stuck into the corner of a mirror beside Stiles and it shows a much younger Scott standing next to a dark Latino man.

The man is striking and handsome, with strong features and dark eyes, Scott’s eyes.

Stiles follows Derek’s gaze, pressing his lips together for a second before he says, “That’s Scott’s father.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in prison,” Stiles tells him, voice strong and unwavering even as a faint flush reappears in his cheeks. The back of his hand passes self-consciously over the underside of his chin before he scratches at the hollow behind his ear.

He lifts his gaze to Derek, eyes locking on to his, nose twitching in mild discomfort, though he refuses to look away.

“Oh,” Derek says, a moment too late. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles straightens up, beckoning Derek to follow him with a wave of his hand as he walks past him, “What do you do?”

Derek takes the change in subject in stride, walking behind Stiles as he takes in the apartment, “I drive.”

Stiles moves over to Scott, sitting quietly at the table in the living room, avidly colouring in his drawing as he simultaneously watches the television. 

Stiles ruffles a hand through his son’s hair, “Like a limo driver?”

“No,” Derek says, walking past the window, slowly rounding the small living room. “For the movies.”

“You mean all those car chases and stuff?” Stiles says, standing behind Scott’s chair, hands resting lightly on Scott’s small shoulders.

Derek nods, a little embarrassed, and leans against the wall.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Stiles says, and despite the careful smile flickering over his mouth, Derek can see the underlying concern in his voice and it throws him.

“It’s just part-time,” he finds himself saying. “Most days I work in a garage.”

“Where?”

“Reseda Boulevard,” Derek says, and he can’t help smiling at Stiles, just a small tugging of his lips, it’s small and unassuming but it’s there nonetheless.

Stiles’ smile is a lot brighter than Derek’s, even though he’s trying to hide it, skin paling to white with how hard he’s pressing his lips together.

The hiding of his smile is a feat that gets harder and harder the longer they look at each other, and eventually Stiles ducks his head, biting down on his grin, before he looks up at Derek.

“I should get going,” Derek says, straightening up, committing Stiles’ expression to memory. He catches the brief look of disappointment in Stiles’ eyes but the man quickly covers it with another smile.

He walks forward to take the glass back from Derek, cool fingers sliding over Derek’s, lingering for a slight second just before Stiles clutches the glass to his chest and steps away to open the door.

“Thanks for the help,” Stiles says.

“Thanks for the water,” Derek replies easily, stepping out into the hall.

“Say goodbye, Scott,” Stiles calls, turning around to address his son. From the depths of the living room, Derek hears Scott’s absent-minded repetition.

Stiles offers him one last smile, a quiet goodbye and he closes the door.

-

The reflections of passing neon lights roll in long, distended beams over the Camaro’s windscreen. Derek’s cruising down Hollywood Boulevard, completely shut off from the outside world, listening to Purple Rain as the hookers and the hipsters crowd each side of the streets, while up above tenuously airbrushed movie stars stare down at the ordinary from their lofty billboards.

It’s early in the morning, just past the darkness, and Derek’s been driving all night, unable to sleep. He parks in a garishly lit mini-mall and heads across the parking lot.

Towards the middle distance there is a small group of lowlives congregating in a gang, hanging out with intent. They see Derek coming and look over intimidatingly, though Derek’s only reaction is to bunch his car keys in his hand, sliding the longest key between his second and third finger in a makeshift weapon.

The members of the gang don’t see it, but the unflinching look in Derek’s sharp eyes unnerves them and they all eventually look away, letting him pass without trouble.

There’s no music on at this time in the diner, it’s small and shabby but it’s clean and sparse of too many people.

Derek sits on his own on the counter, slowly working his way through a plate of bacon and eggs.

There’s a man sitting a little further down with an unkempt beard and long, greasy hair shoved through a tattered baseball cap, intermediately staring over at Derek between bites of his own food.

Soon, he stands and makes his way over to Derek, sitting in beside him.

He knocks on the counter with his knuckles, “Mind if I cut in?”

Derek ignores him, methodically eating his breakfast.

“You’re Bobby’s buddy, right?” the man says, leaning forward to try to catch Derek’s attention. “We met last year. You drove me and my brother back from Palm Springs.”

Derek looks up into the redneck’s eyes, pupils blown wide in his coked-up high. He looks back down to his plate.

“Next run,” the man continues on obliviously. “Well, next run we hired another wheelman. I spent six months in jail, my brother got himself killed.”

Derek lives by two rules: one, he doesn’t talk about jobs in public nor outside the privacy of burner phones; two, he doesn’t do repeat customers. This man, evidently, hasn’t got the memo. 

"He wasn't much, mind you," the man laughs through yellowing teeth, inviting Derek in on the joke, “Just family.”

Derek pretends not to have heard him. He does his job only once, he gets his money and then he gets out, no strings attached and no repeats. He does his job well and he does it quietly, it’s the only way to ensure that he gets away without ending up in jail.

“Thing is,” the man continues. “I’ve got this sweet job coming up-”

“How about this,” Derek says abruptly, voice quiet and threatening as he interrupts. “You shut your mouth. Or I’ll kick your teeth down your throat and I’ll shut it for you.”

Derek watches him unfalteringly; watches as the man’s smile slowly fades in the quiet aftermath of Derek’s icy gaze.

The man dithers over the appropriate response for a moment, but he evidently decides against it, standing up and muttering, “Well, it was good to see you again.”

Derek carries on eating as if the man didn’t exist.

-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have got to stop uploading things at two in the morning, this is actually getting ridiculous.

-

There’s a loud stutter of an unhealthy engine reverberating across the entirety of the garage that has Derek looking up. Bobby sits in the driving seat of the second hand racecar he’d bought in Montecito a month earlier, revving the engine.

Bobby, the owner of Bobby’s Picture Car Warehouse and Derek’s (slightly eccentric) boss turns to look at him with a nettled look, “Sounds like a goddamn M-16.”

Derek smiles, popping the hood as Bobby limps away. He’s tinkering with the engine, ten minutes later when he hears him speak again.

“Bobby Finstock,” he calls out in greeting over the lot. “How can I help you, kid?”

Derek turns to look, surprise flitting over him as he recognises the dusty blue Jeep sitting on the back of a tow truck.

Stiles stands just beside it, Scott plastered to his side, one hand splayed over his son’s chest and the other reaching forward to shake with Bobby’s.

“Stiles,” he replies, waving a hand over the Jeep. “I’ve got a problem with my car.”

Bobby takes one look at Stiles, turns, pulls an even longer face at the jeep, face contorting into a patronising grin.

“I can imagine,” Bobby laughs, rough and unsophisticated. “That thing must be older than my grandma.”

He beckons Stiles and Scott forward, “Just my opinion, but I think you should consider buying a new car.”

Bobby claps a heavy hand on Stiles’ shoulder, making the man stumble forward a bit, his expression clearly showing the deliberation over whether he should be amused or offended.

Bobby, meanwhile, spins around on his good leg, dragging the other a bit behind him, to pin Greenberg, the garage’s underhand, with a fierce glare.

“Lower the truck,” he yells to him. “What the hell are you _doing_? Do I pay you to stand around looking like a buffoon?”

As Greenberg skitters away, Stiles’ gaze takes in the whole of the garage, catching on to Derek’s with a smile.

“Hi,” he greets, free hand coming up to do a half-abandoned wave as Derek goes over.

“Hi,” Derek repeats, smiling at him and he’s still absently cleaning the motor oil from his hands with a rag piece, eyes on Stiles, when Bobby pops up beside him.

“You boys know each other?” he asks, curious gaze flittering between them.

“We’re neighbours,” Stiles says, swaying forward with a nod.

Bobby’s face light up with a mischievous smile as he watches them, he side-eyes Derek.

“Oh, I see,” he drawls, predacious grin already present and accounted for. He levels Derek with a look and proclaims, “ _Saucy_.”

“Shut up,” Derek warns, trying to ignore the sly look in Bobby’s face but he can’t help the embarrassed smile stretching over his lips, so he turns right back around and heads back to the car he was fixing.

Bobby’s voice carries over to where Derek is standing; lifting up the car he’s fixing on the car lift, so he can get to the underside.

When Bobby’s finished laughing, loudly and nothing short of mocking, he finally returns to his professional demeanour.

“What seems to be the problem, kid?” he asks, pushing Scott and Stiles, none too gently to the side, as Greenberg works on placing the car inside the bay.

“Either it doesn’t start,” Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Or it stalls.”

Derek is still watching Stiles, eyes running over the man’s form, quietly satisfied when he catches Stiles’ own gaze wandering over to Derek.

“I can come back later,” Stiles says to Bobby, once he drags his eyes away, biting down on his lip. “If you’re busy.”

“ _He’s_ busy,” Bobby says, turns around to smirk at Derek before he looks back to Stiles. “I’m not.”

By the time that Bobby is peering into the hood of the jeep, deep in conversation with Stiles and blustering another loud and magnanimous chuckle, Scott quietly insinuates himself by Derek’s side.

He takes off his jacket and hangs it over a stack of tires before he leans on it. The stack is taller than Scott is, but that doesn’t stop him; he recommences their staring game, shrewd smile on his face as he watches Derek.

Derek is still beneath the car he’s working on, and the mechanical whirring of the wrench as he tunes the vehicle fills the silence between him and Scott. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the kid, even as his hands dutifully continue their work.

It takes no less than thirty seconds for Scott to lose the game, and Derek smiles, “You blinked.”

Over by the next bay, Stiles scratches his head, he’s long given up on trying to figure out what Bobby is doing and is instead loitering a little listlessly beside the car.

“Can I call a cab from here?” he says to Bobby.

“Sure,” Bobby cries, voice booming to account for his poking around the hood; then he freezes, straightens up and stares at Stiles. “What am I _saying_? You live next to the kid, right? He can take you home.”

“Oh, no,” Stiles says, immediately protesting. “No, I’d feel bad. I-”

“Don’t even think twice about it,” Bobby stresses, dismissing Stiles’ protestations with an easy hand. “He’ll be happy to do it, he’s a good guy.”

Bobby wraps an oil rag around the Jeep’s fuel filter, cleaning it with sharp, rapid movements. “You know, he walked into my shop some five or six years ago, right out of the blue, asking for a job. So, I put him to the test, y’know? To see what he could do.”

He looks at Stiles expectantly, clearly anticipating some sort confirmation that he’s listening. Stiles nods, startled, “Sure, yep. Yeah. Definitely, definitely.”

“The kid’s amazing,” Bobby proclaims, staring at Stiles with wide (a little crazed) eyes. “ _Amazing_.”

Derek feels like a cheat at this point, when he sees the pleased smile on Stiles’ face, because he knows that what Bobby is praising isn’t his skills as a mechanic, not by a long shot.

“So I hire him on the spot, just like that: _boom_ ,” Bobby continues on, evidently preening in front of his attentive audience. “At about half the wages I normally pay. He didn’t even blink an eye.”

Stiles laughs, adjusting his stance slightly and crossing his arms over his chest, voice mingling with Bobby’s own boisterous chuckle.

“Hey, kid,” Bobby calls over his shoulder to Derek. “Come over here for a second, will you?”

Scott leads the way for Derek, pausing a little to glance back and make sure that Derek is walking behind him. They reach them just as Bobby leans towards Stiles for a conspiratorial whisper.

“I’ve been exploiting him ever since,” he says to a grinning Stiles. “Shh. Don’t tell him.”

Bobby gestures to the car, “The problem’s bigger than I thought. Looks like I’ll have to keep the car here for a few days. So I offered your services to take Scott and Stiles here, home. That okay?”

From the way that Bobby is standing, neither Stiles nor Scott can see his face, so the expression he pulls towards Derek, lascivious and roguish, is thankfully averted from their eyes.

Bobby purses his lips and raises his eyebrows suggestively, and Derek has to try his very hardest not to roll his eyes at his boss; he only _just_ manages.

He turns to Stiles, “Yeah, sure.”

“That’s my boy,” Bobby beams, but Derek isn’t paying attention to him anymore. He’s caught, inexplicably caught in Stiles’ gaze, mouth curling into a small smile before he even know it.

“Go on,” Bobby says next, flicking the edge of the rag to hit Derek’s chest. “Get out of here.”

Derek turns to leave but he pauses, sneaking a sly look at Stiles.

“I don’t have wheels,” he gibes, pointing at the vehicle he has on the lift. “On my car.”

Stiles bursts out laughing, which was the intended aim. Though it’s more of a snickering giggle that bubbles at the back of his throat, leaving him with a wide smile.

He looks enchanting.

“Okay,” Stiles says, still smiling as he absently scratches at the back of his neck.

“It’s one thing you should know about me,” Derek continues on to tease; batting away the rag Bobby throws at his face with practiced ease.

Derek takes a golden Chevelle for the drive, riding with Stiles and Scott in comfortable silence, it’s approaching late afternoon, and the sunlight is soft and golden as it floods over the city.

He waits until he turns on to Silverlake Boulevard before he addresses Scott, who’s sitting in the backseat, eyes wide as he takes in the scenery.

“You like movies?” Derek asks.

Scott looks at him, fidgets until he’s sitting on his hands, “Sometimes.”

“You wanna see something?” Derek says, turning just in time to catch Stiles look over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in question at his son.

Scott nods and Stiles looks at Derek, shrugging his shoulders, “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Derek says, pressing his foot to the pedal. “Buckle up.”

-

The city and the buildings blur past the windows, Derek takes an underpass takes leads them away from the gradually building traffic. He handles the corner expertly, the car barely swerving as it glides over the tarmac, vibrations rolling up from the floor to flood Derek’s entire body.

In the backseat, Scott looks tense but exhilarated and Stiles turns around, hanging over the edge of the seat to unbuckle Scott’s seatbelt and pull him to the front.

In his father’s lap, Scott looks a much more relaxed, fingers threaded tightly through Stiles’.

Derek heads onto a dry riverbed further out of town, smirking lightly when he sees Stiles sit up a little, recognition marking his face.

“Is this where they shot _Grease_?” he asks. “Oh my god.”

Derek’s only answer is to roar along the drainage canals, gliding past a landscape of abandoned shopping carts, garbage bags, shredded tires and large half-puddles that haven’t yet dried under the sun, picking up speed all the way.

He feels that familiar surge of adrenaline in his blood, the same kind he gets when he always drives, _really_ drives.

Derek rolls up over the sides of the riverbed, tilting the car ever so slightly just to watch the way that Stiles laughs, steading himself with a hand on the dashboard as he gets jostled from side to side.

Stiles cradles Scott close to him, pressing a kiss to his temple before burying his nose in his son’s curls, eyes glazing a hazy golden brown underneath the sun.

Derek parks in a section of the canal that looks like an oasis and they all get out, heading towards the greenery at the edge of the riverbed.

They stop near a shallow stream, the clear water showing the large rocks and reeds that clutter the bottom of it. As Derek and Stiles sit on the embankment together, Scott skips stones over the surface of the water, counting each plop and ripple with tangible excitement before he turns to check that Stiles is watching.

Derek sits on a flat rock some forty minutes later, eyes closed and basking in the last rays of furtive warmth, he breathes deep and even.

When he opens his eyes again, Stiles and Scott are climbing one of the big trees a little further out. Stiles’ body brackets his son’s as he carefully instructs Scott as to where to put his hands and feet; ready to catch him should he fall.

They make it one of the high branches eventually; it’s thick and smooth, allowing for father and son to sit comfortably, with Scott pressed near the bark for extra safety and their legs swinging easily in the air beneath them.

Before Derek even knows it the afternoon passes with water-fights and shared smiles, strolls through the leaf-soaked paths and Jedi matches battled with light-sabers fashioned from sticks and Stiles’ over-zealous sound effects.

They get back to their apartment building just as the daylight gets snuffed, a heavy blanket of darkness fading across the city and leaving only a trail of neon lights and reflective glass.

Cradling a sleeping Scott in his arms, Derek lays him down on his bed, moving back to lean against the doorjamb and watches quietly as Stiles unlaces Scott’s sneakers, being careful not to wake him.

Derek slips out of the room just as Stiles cards his fingers through Scott’s hair, shushing his sleepy mumblings with soft whispers of comfort.

He sits by the window in the living room instead, watching the steady trickle of cars roll down the interstate in the distance, their headlights like tiny pinpricks of light glazing over the horizon.

Stiles walks out of the bedroom, leaning his shoulder on the wall next to Derek, his leather jacket folded neatly over Stiles’ arms.

“Thank you for today,” Stiles says to him, voice quiet, measured. “He had a great time.”

Derek stares back at him, the moment prolonged and charged; the sheer look in Stiles’ eyes makes the hair on the backs of his arms stand on end.

“Me too,” he replies eventually, turning his eyes away and instead focusing on the oily stains the on shirt he’d worn to the garage.

Derek can feel the gaze of Stiles on him, weighty and speculative, waiting for Derek to say something, but he keeps his eyes averted, determinedly fixed on his shirt.

The moment just hangs over the edge of uncomfortable and in the silence Stiles sounds a little uncertain.

“I’m sorry if I put you on the spot today,” he says. “Just showing up like that.”

“It’s okay,” Derek replies quietly, though his voice fades away as their eyes stay on each other.

The attraction between them is a palpable thing, thick and rich in the air. Derek can’t help but smile again; he feels like he’s smiled more in the time that he’s known Scott and Stiles than he had combined in the five years previously.

Their look hangs on for an eternity and longer, and while the soundlessness between them isn’t uncomfortable it does have the essence of an unbreakable tension - one that intensifies the second that Stiles licks his lips, Derek’s gaze inevitably falling to his mouth.

Derek reaches tentative fingers towards the leather jacket in Stiles’ arms. The movement crashes through their intimacy, and Stiles jolts a little, standing up straighter, coughing a little as Derek folds the jacket over his own arm.

“I’m not doing anything this weekend,” Derek says, looking up at Stiles beneath his lashes, a poor attempt at being coy as he watches surprise flitter over the other man’s expression. “If you need a ride anywhere.”

There’s a second’s pause but then Stiles nods, pressing his knuckles to his mouth to try to hide or dispel the grin that’s forming over his lips.

When Derek stands he and Stiles hover in each other’s orbits; they’re nearly the same height, an inch or two between them, and standing near chest-to-chest as they are, Derek can’t help the way that he sways forward a little.

He could kiss Stiles now. He knows that he could, and he _wants_ to.

Nothing would be simpler than to reach out that little bit further, tip his head to the side and slide his mouth over Stiles, to kiss him long and deep, slip his tongue in alongside his and find out if those rose pink lips of his taste as soft as they look.

But something inside him holds back; even as he sees the pupils in Stiles’ eyes dilate and his gaze runs over Derek’s face, even as he knows Stiles would, in the moment, reciprocate.

And maybe it’s because fitted on one of the long fingers of Stiles’ left hand is one solitary piece of wrought gold.

The ring is simple; it’s slim and unassuming, but the implication is there all the same, and Derek doesn’t want to ruin this, the tentative relationship of sorts they’ve begun by making a wrong move.

Instead, he ducks his head; presses a sweet, chaste kiss to Stiles’ cheek, lips brushing over heat-reddened skin, and leaves before Stiles can properly respond.

-

Derek does end up driving Stiles at the weekend; picking him up for the night shift job he has cleaning at the hotel on Olympic Boulevard. But it’s not only the once, no. It becomes a tradition of sorts, for days and weeks after the Jeep has been fixed.

While the car rides aren’t particularly quiet, Derek finds some kind of peace in them, with the steady glide of the motor beneath them and Stiles’ tired smile in the passenger seat on the way back.

It’s good; _so_ good and almost perfect in their routine.

Derek spends a lot more time over at Stiles and Scott’s apartment as the dates on the calendar go by, and he grows to hate how cold and detached his own apartment feels when Stiles is not there running after Scott.

They begin to work around each other with a seamlessness that’s breath-taking, with Derek putting Scott to bed, the little boy’s arms stuffed in the too-long sleeves of Derek’s leather jacket, before Stiles swoops in to carefully change Scott into his pyjamas.

In the days and days following that, each passing glance becomes more heart breaking, each lingering touch more revealing.

It’s something they don’t talk about, something they’re aware of but they choose to ignore. Until, that is, one particular night as Derek is driving Stiles through the city, lights blurring past.

Derek can feel Stiles’ gaze on him all through the night; he can practically taste the speculative aura of it.

It’s a testament to the strength of the bond between them that it doesn’t feel like a surprise when Stiles’ hand reaches over to cover where Derek’s is lying over the gearshift.

Stiles’ fingertips, cool to the touch, slide over Derek’s knuckles and insinuate themselves in the spaces between. Derek, in turn, stretches out his own fingers before he curls them back over Stiles’ holding them tight to his palm.

He shifts his hand slightly, so that he can still manoeuvre the shift without letting go of Stiles’ hand.

Derek feels the ensuing calmness in the man, the gradual relaxation of his bones the longer they touch, and the languid happiness of his entire countenance.

He looks over to Derek, he smiles and it doesn’t feel like a surprise, not at all. 

-

Two weeks after that, after countless hours spent together, Derek fits into Stiles’ apartment as if there had never been a time when he didn’t.

He’s on the couch with Scott, the kid’s legs kicked over Derek’s thighs as he slouches on the other side of the small two-seater. On the television, a Japanese cartoon is playing, the masked hero is confronting the villains and the screen is flickering from scene to scene.

“Is he the bad guy?” Derek asks Scott.

“Yeah.”

“How can you tell?”

“’Cos,” Scott shrugs, eyes not leaving the screen, “He’s a shark.”

Derek thinks it over a little bit, looking at the television and then back at Scott.

“There aren’t any good sharks?”

“No,” Scott says, just as a knock sounds over the apartment and Stiles comes blustering over from his bedroom.

“I mean just look at him,” Scott continues. “Does he look like a good guy to you?”

From the door comes Stiles’ quiet greeting with his friend, Scott’s usual babysitter. He hugs the woman before he closes the door behind her. The babysitter is already placing all of her things down with an easy familiarity.

“This is Cindy,” Stiles calls out to Derek just as Cindy walks over, bright smile on her face and dark curls pinned away from her face.

“Hi,” she says, perching on the arm of the couch. Scott immediately holds up his hand for a high-five, which Cindy returns with an affectionate grin.

Stiles has already disappeared into the hall again, only to re-surface moments later to answer the phone as its shrill tone crackles around the apartment.

He’s scrubbing a tired hand over his face as he answers, but the hand freezes in its tracks as Stiles listens to the voice on the other end.

Surprise cards over his features and Derek is sat stock still, watching the way that Stiles’ expression shutters, how he blinks looking agitated and blank all at once before he turns on his heel and walks towards his bedroom.

Derek knows something is wrong as soon as they get into the Camaro later on. Stiles is quiet, staring out of the window at the glittering fountain in Echo Park.

They’ve had silent rides before of course, but never like this, so fraught with tension.

Derek wants to reach out his hand, offer it palm up to Stiles but he’s not too sure that that’s the right course of action this time.

Instead, he settles for none-too subtle glances over at Stiles as they drive further and further in to the city.

“You okay?” Derek eventually asks.

Stiles takes a long time to answer, and even when he does he’s not looking at Derek, choosing to stare out of the window.

“That was my husband’s lawyer,” he says, clearing his throat and it’s clear he’s trying to sound casual. “He’s getting an early release.”

Stiles licks his lips, looks over at Derek, who is studiously maintaining his attention on the road.

Stiles watches him for a second, breathes, looks away again, “He’s coming home in a week.”

Derek takes the news quietly, even though it hits him like a sledgehammer, slow and unrelenting.

He shifts in his seat, and his fingers strain over the steering wheel. He blinks and schools his expression into one of calm indifference, though the lie sears hot and burning in the space between his lungs.

“I’m happy for Scott,” Stiles says quietly, eyes trained on his hands in his lap, voice distant and reserved.

Derek knows that Stiles is trying to explain himself, trying to legitimise the hesitant connection that grew between them, but he doesn’t say anything, just drives in silence.

Ahead the traffic lights turn red and Derek slows the car down to a stop.

Inside, the quietness between the two passengers is unbearable.

Stiles pauses and looks at Derek, his eyes run over the contours of his face not hidden by shadow. 

There’s something achingly lonely and melancholy about Derek’s stillness, he knows, and he hates that Stiles can see him like this; hates that the domesticity he’d been cultivating in the past few weeks, something he hadn’t had for _years_ can be taken away so easily like this.

Over in the passenger seat, Stiles hesitates before he moves his hand towards him. His fingers brush over the back of Derek’s hand, slip into the spaces between his and hold on tight.

The gesture is tiny, but it’s charged with intimacy and familiarity; Derek’s lost count of the amount of times that they have sat in this very car, holding hands in this very way.

They both stare out into the half deserted streets in silence, fingers clasped tight.

And then, all too soon, Stiles gently withdraws his hand, tucking it between his thighs as if nothing had happened.

The message is clear, final.

Outside, the lights change to their customary green and Derek drives on. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I may have made Stiles' husband Agent McCall, which I don't personally ship but he was literally the only person who fit the character of Standard. I was actually going to make Allison be Stiles' wife and the one who was in prison and stuff, but then I realised that that wouldn't work because there's hardly any age difference and about a billion other things so I was hey, Agent McCall, right?  
> Matthew del Negro is hot anyway so whatevs.  
> See you soon! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one thing this chapter has taught me is that I know nothing about cars and I should probably never ever even dare consider mechanics as a possible career option. 
> 
> Also, everybody who hasn't watched Drive yet should really (really!) consider doing so. Ryan Gosling and leather gloves. I'm just saying.
> 
> And the kid that plays Benicio (aka, Scott in this AU) is literally the cutest thing on planet earth, I'm not even kidding. :)

-

Derek is in his apartment, sitting in the same seat he’d been in since he got home from the garage.

His apartment is dark, with only a few low lamps turned on throughout the space casting a dim yellow glow; yet it feels taciturn and empty, clinical even.

He’s sitting at the table with a bright white desk lamp shining down on him, illuminating only Derek’s hands, the carburettor he’s working on and the equipment he’s using.

Derek has been sat here for ages, lost within the hours, tinkering away at the piece in front of him.

The carburettor is for one of Bobby’s cars, it’s being picked up by it’s new owner in the next few days and so Derek is in charge of making sure it’s in tip-top shape.

Derek’s hands work with a steady precision, and he moves the rest of his body only when strictly necessary; keeping up an image of being almost perfect stillness.

He’s just finishing up with the part, turning his screwdriver in the main adjust on the side to check the throttle valve when, through the wall, comes the sound of laughter.

It mingles in with the muffled sounds of music that has been steadily going for hours now; there’s a small party going on in Stiles’ apartment, his husband has been released and his friends and family are there to celebrate.

It makes for a terrific contrast with the almost soundlessness within Derek’s own apartment, jarring with the quiet noises of his work being overtaken by the resounding bass beat from next door.

He’s decided to take the carburettor to Bobby’s tonight, he has a drive later on so he has to stop by anyway and he’d rather be out of the apartment, away from the noise next door, than have to sit in the darkness of his living room, immobile and wrecked.

When he’s finished, Derek stands up; he picks up his leather jacket from where he’d draped it over the back of his seat and puts it on, smoothing his collar down and zipping it half way up the length of his blue Henley before methodically turning off the lights as he heads out.

He has the carburettor in hand as he’s walking over the threshold, and he’s just about to swing the door shut when he catches sight of Stiles.

He’s sitting against the wall between their two apartments, legs stretched out and ankles crossed, a glass bottle of cider in his hands and a far-off, thoughtful look in his eyes.

They haven’t seen each other in over a week and Stiles hasn’t noticed him yet, so Derek takes the opportunity to cast his gaze over the man, quietly remembering his features.

Beyond Stiles, above the door to his apartment is a homemade banner. Individual pieces of card in interchanging yellow and blue spell out ‘Welcome Home’, and strung together, hanging in a garland; around the edges of the door are a few balloons, some on the floor, their white ribbons fluttering out across the carpet.

Derek turns off the final light in his apartment and closes the door with a quiet _snick_.

The noise catches Stiles’ attention and he turns his head. He looks a little surprised to see Derek, hesitating a little before he calls out.

“Hey,” he says, he doesn’t bother standing, looking up at Derek from where he sits, twirling the glass bottle slowly in his hands.

Derek leans against the doorframe, “Hi.”

Their eyes stay on each other, the music pounding in the background. Stiles looks tired but he leans his head back against the wallpaper, breathing deep and steady through their silence.

“Sorry about the noise,” he says quietly, mouth quickly turning up in an apologetic smile, before disappearing altogether.

Derek licks his lips, jokes, “I was going to call the cops.”

Stiles’ voice is monotonous, almost disembodied, “I wish you would.”

The response falls too flat to be genuine humour, especially not with the uneasy way that Stiles holds himself, looking drained and overwhelmed.

There’s a distinctively tense moment, Derek watching Stiles with unabashed concern.

“Listen,” Stiles hedges, fingertips tapping on the glass, tongue tracing the contours of his lips. “If you’re hungry we’ve got plenty of food-”

Just then, the door to Stiles’ apartment opens behind them. Stiles’ husband Rafael, as Derek had heard the party cheer earlier, stands in the threshold with Scott perched on his shoulders and a bag of trash in his hand.

He pauses, and then smiles Stiles.

Rafael is tall, hair is parted at the side and coiffed expertly back, and he’s dressed in jeans and a sharp teal dress shirt. With the uncannily familiar brown eyes, as keen and bright as Scott’s own, by all means, Rafael doesn’t look like he’s just got out of jail.

Although, Derek acquiesces, that the few days the man has been home must have been plenty enough time to get rid of that particular persona. 

As Stiles stands up and turns to greet his husband, Derek takes the opportunity to lock his door, capitalising on the chance to look away from where Stiles and Rafael greet each other with quiet intimacy.

The most striking thing about Stiles and Rafael as a couple, a notion that burns in Derek’s throat, is the remarkable disparity of age between them. Rafael is at least fifteen years older than Stiles, although it’s probably pushing closer to twenty.

That’s not to say that they look odd together, because they don’t and even though it aches for Derek to admit it, they strangely compliment one another.

“Hey,” Rafael calls out to Derek. He puts the bag down, takes Scott off of his shoulders. “How you doing?”

“Hi,” Derek replies, standing up from his rest against the doorjamb. He places his keys in his pocket, smiling gently at Scott.

“This guy’s been telling me a lot about you,” Rafael announces, moving closer to Derek, stopping two feet away.

He drops his hands on Scott’s head as he looks over at Derek. His smile is sharp, hiding whatever he feels inside; Stiles loiters in the background as Rafael continues.

“He says that you’ve been coming around a lot lately. Helping out,” Rafael says.

There’s no denying the hard edge to his voice; the man is almost aggressive in his politesse. “Yeah? Helping out? Is that right?”

Scott from where he’s standing grins up at Derek, completely oblivious to the charged tension between the three adults in the hall.

Derek finds himself smiling down at him; he _misses_ Scott, a fact that he had finally admitted to himself in the dead of night a few nights prior.

Scott wrinkles his nose at Derek, looking delighted.

“Is that right?” Rafael repeats, tighter this time.

Derek had all but forgotten about him, and when blinks back Rafael, the trace of annoyance in the man’s eyes is easily detectable.

Derek hums in affirmation.

“Oh,” Rafael responds, nodding. He turns to throw a look at Stiles over his shoulder. “That’s nice. That’s very nice of you.”

Stiles looks uncomfortable, smiling tightly at Rafael before his eyes unwittingly flicker over to Derek.

Rafael follows his gaze, pinning Derek with scrutinising contemplation.

“Thank you,” he says to Derek.

It’s almost amusing how blatantly aggravated Rafael seems to be.

“You’re welcome,” Derek replies, purposefully light and airy.

“You drive for the movies?” Rafael asks next.

“Yeah,” Derek says absently, eyes sliding over to Stiles completely unbidden.

They hold each other’s gaze for a breath of a second, until Stiles coughs, stepping towards his husband.

“Raf, I can take that,” he says, gesturing at the bin bag.

“No, no, no, I got it,” Rafael refutes; Stiles pauses in his tracks, presses his lips together in a poor approximation of a smile.

Rafael rubs a large palm over Scott’s sweater.

“Come on,” he says to his son, before looking up at Derek with thinly veiled condescension. “Let Daddy talk to his friend.”

With one last lingering look, Rafael nudges Scott past Derek to the Exit door just beyond Derek’s apartment.

He stands by the threshold watching as Scott shoves the bag of paper plates and plastic cutlery into the Trash Shute.

Derek smiles at Stiles, inclining his head just slightly in a nod, the returning smile that Stiles grants Derek is nothing short of apologetic, fingers flaring out around the neck of the bottle in a helpless gesture.

Without further ado, Derek heads towards the elevators.

From behind him he hears Rafael’s voice calling out to him, “Have a good night.”

Derek lifts his fingers in a flitting goodbye he doesn’t bother turning back for.

-

Later, when Derek is following Bobby through the rows and rows of shiny vintage cars, his mood hasn’t particularly improved, he’s half-listening to Bobby’s conversational rants, head bobbing with unenthusiastic hums and nods.

“Plain Jane,” Bobby is saying. “Cheap like you asked for but with a hundred and sixty horsepower inside.”

He stops, whirls around and places a stilling hand on Derek’s chest. “You get any sleep?”

“Not this week.”

Bobby grins, “I can offer you some Halcyon.”

“Won’t work,” is Derek’s curt reply.

“Kid.”

Derek lifts a single eyebrow, “Boss.”

They stare at each other, each as defiant as the other. Despite Bobby’s eccentricities, Derek knows he cares, and there is genuine concern in his expression, a rare sight in itself.

He wants to tell Bobby that there’s nothing to worry about, he’s getting back into the routine he had before Scott and Stiles came into his life, it’s just taking a while to get used to it again.

Derek is particularly talented at compartmentalising his life, so for now he wants to think only about the job he has tonight. It’s to be a robbery of one of the boutiques by a couple of rich kids looking for a thrill.

Derek thinks it might be one of the Martin girls and her boyfriend, but he can’t be too sure, he doesn’t watch television enough to be particularly up to date with the Los Angeles socialite scene.

Bobby sighs, as if more woe is being put upon him, and they carry on walking, heading past some more cars – Fords, Dodges, Buicks – until they arrive at a plain looking Hyundai.

“There she is. You won’t be noticed in this ugly thing,” Bobby goes on to say. “You’ll be in and out of the job faster than Greenberg’s stamina.”

Derek casts his eyes over the unimpressive car, definitively ignoring Bobby’s last statement, and then holds out his hands for the keys.

-

Only a handful of days later, Derek leans out of his car window, slowing down the Camaro enough to idle so he can insert the key of the underground parking lot into the gate. 

He cruises slowly as he descends into the darkness of the car park, it’s still bright outside, just nearing four in the afternoon, but the lot is barren and cavernous, cold and echoic.

It’s driving down through the rows that he sees two shadowy figures walking in the opposite direction of Derek’s car: a man and a woman; both young, stunning and dressed almost identically in skinny jeans and all black everything.

The man is tall and lithe, with a scarf looped thrice around his neck and a dark wool peacoat billowing around him. He has a head of light brown curls and an expression full of supercilious vitriol; he stuffs his hands, decorated with silver knuckledusters, in the side pockets of his coat as he turns to look at Derek.

The woman, by contrast, is sharp and wild. Swinging a baseball bat from her hand, she’s wearing a leather jacket over her skinny jeans, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders as she walks. She grins at Derek, ruby-coloured lips pulling back over her teeth and brown eyes almost sparkling with amusement.

Derek keeps his eyes on them as he rolls past, but the moment ends far too quickly and the two figures are immersed in shadow as they head up the ramp.

When he parks, Derek pauses for a second, looking after them, mind working as he tries to piece together what’s going on.

He feels a low stirring of dread settling in his stomach as he gets out of his car, his steps careful as he approaches the low, rumbling noises coming from further in the lot.

Derek walks silently around the corner.

Stops.

There, against the shadows of the place lies a figure sprawled against the wall, Rafael.

He’s clutching helplessly at his ribs and he’s covered in blood; his formally white tank top is filthy with it, he has several contusions on his face, swollen and violently red.

His dark hair is matted together in clumps, he’s spitting red saliva and he’s sweating with exertion, an altogether different man from the one Derek saw the previous week.

He’s facing away from Derek, choking on his words due to the pain, addressing someone else.

“Don’t-. Don’t tell Daddy,” Rafael urges, voice hoarse and wheezy. “It’ll be a secret. Between-, between you and me.”

Further on down the car park is the smaller figure that Rafael is talking to.

Hiding behind one of the large, round pillars is Scott, barely home from school and frozen in fear, fingers grapping at the stone of the column.

Scott is staring at his father helplessly, ignoring Rafael’s pleads to _“come here, it’s okay, just come over here,”_ and he jumps when he sees Derek, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Rafael follows Scott’s gaze, deflating all at once with a groan of pain when he recognises Derek.

Derek, for his part, completely ignores Rafael, stepping cleanly over the man to walk towards Scott.

Scott tracks Derek’s progress, staring up at him even as he struggles to hold back his tears, clutching at the column as his breath rattles.

Derek stops in front of him, gaze running over the boy before crouches down to Scott’s eye-level.

He looks generally unscathed, his school clothes looking as pristine as they did when Rafael took him to school that morning, but Scott also looks terrified, breathing racketing up in uneven gasps as he snaps out of his shock.

Derek gently takes the backpack from Scott’s shoulders, hurriedly rifling through it’s contents to find his inhaler, and he adjusts his stance, moving to one knee so he can perch Scott on his thigh, carefully facing away from Rafael and the wet, wheezing groans tumbling from his mouth.

He gives Scott one strong puff of the inhaler, counts steadily to ten, as he’d seen Stiles do before, and then gives him another.

“Count with me,” Derek tells Scott, and the kid does, though the words begin jumbled and exhaustive.

Scott is clearly struggling but Derek is patient; he waits until Scott shakily exhales each word, pauses for a beat before moving on to the next one. By the eighth number, Scott’s breathing is more or less regulated.

Derek shoulders Scott’s backpack before picking him up, and Scott throws his arms around Derek’s shoulders, hiding his face in the crook of Derek’s neck.

By the time that Derek moves to stand over Rafael, the man has already dragged himself to a more upright position; it’s no more dignified but at least he’s not lying like an animated corpse anymore.

Derek stares coolly down at him, holding Scott’s shaking form over his chest, “Can you move?”

-

In his apartment, Derek parks Scott in front of the television, watching quietly as Scott breathes in and out, expression blank and impassive as he watches the television.

Derek heads to his bathroom when he’s sure that Scott is calm enough.

Rafael is bent over the sink, splashing water on his face but he turns the tap off when Derek enters and straightens up, movements jolty and stiff, before he looks over at Derek.

Rafael leans back against the porcelain basin of the sink and Derek crosses his arms over chest, resting against the door.

“Who were they?”

Rafael laughs, a breathless mocking wheeze of a thing, glowering defiantly at Derek.

“What the fuck are you going to do?” he derides. “Are you going to beat them up for me, stunt guy?”

Derek regards him, unimpressed and blank faced.

“Huh?” he demands, spitting out the words. “Why the _fuck_ do you wanna know who they are?”

Derek still remains quiet, cataloguing his battered face and the stains on the man’s t-shirt.

“Fucking punks took me by surprise,” Rafael mutters.

“Fucking punks didn’t look like they needed to,” Derek remarks dryly, casting a pointed look at Rafael’s blood-sodden clothes.

The man sighs, glancing away to the counter beside the sink, scrutinising how neatly Derek has laid out his toothbrush, shaving cream and razor.

When he finally turns back, he’s lost his bravado and Derek can see how worried he really is.

“They’re some guys that want me to do a job for them,” he confesses begrudgingly. “And I’m not going to do it.”

Derek thins his lips, “What’s the job?”

“They want me to rob a pawnshop in the valley.”

“Why?”

“I owe them some protection money,” Rafael explains. “From when I was inside.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow; Rafael seems to take the hint.

“It’s two thousand bucks. Or, it _was_ ,” he says bitterly. “But as soon as I got out they say: oh, it’s five thousand; oh, no, actually, it’s ten thousand. Twenty thousand. Tomorrow, I don’t know what the fuck it’s going to be.”

He shrugs ineffectually, looking at Derek.

Derek pauses, the silence stretching out between them, then, “What are you going to do?”

“That’s a really good question,” he confesses and then a pained expression crosses his face, he gestures loosely. “They said they were going after Scott and Stiles next.”

Derek stares at him, more concerned than he cares to show. He watches the look of utter dejection on Rafael’s face, the undignified swell of bruises littering his body and he walks out of the bathroom to check on Scott.

Scott is still mindlessly watching the baseball game on the television, tucked in the far corner, legs just barely dangling off of the edge, he hasn’t moved since Derek put him down.

“You okay?” Derek asks, coming to stand in front of the couch, arms still crossed and eyes on the kid.

Scott nods, not looking up; clearly still frightened by his ordeal.

“Want something to drink?” Derek asks next, only for the little boy to shake his head.

He notices the awkward jerky movements of Scott’s hand, fingers stumbling over whatever he has cocooned in his palm; Derek catches a flash of metal.

“What's this you got here?” he asks Scott, and the kid finally looks up at Derek, gaze cautious and reserved. “Can I see?”

Derek holds out his hand, palm up, trying to look as inviting and unthreatening as he can.

Scott leans forward, and in Derek’s palm he deposits a single gold-coloured bullet.

It’s still warm from Scott’s hands, and as Derek twirls the metal with his fingers he begins to feel that familiar, arresting sensation of pure and unadulterated anger.

“One of those people gave you that?”

Scott hums in confirmation, voice still a little rough from his earlier asthmatic flare-up, “She told me not to lose it.”

Derek stares at the bullet, breathes, looks at Scott.

When he speaks, Derek’s voice is tight from the containment of his rage; “You want me to keep that for you?”

The boy blinks, turns his pallid face back to the television, “Okay.”

-

Derek is parked across the street from the coffee shop Stiles works at a couple of times during the week, watching as Stiles flits in between the tables.

Derek hesitates, conflicted, and then finally gets out of the car.

When Stiles walks out of the kitchen with a tray of food, he stops as soon as he sees Derek sitting at a booth.

He looks surprised to see him, but also pleased, offering him a small smile before he heads over to serve his customer.

When he’s finished he heads back into the kitchen, returning not two minutes later with a mug of coffee.

He reaches across the table to place the cup in front of Derek before he slides into the seat opposite him.

Derek carefully pushes away his cutlery and his napkin, elbows judiciously not touching the table; he turns the handle of the mug so that it sits perpendicular to him and places his hands in his lap.

The coffee is black, he hasn’t tried it yet, but he has no doubts it’ll have two sugars; just how he likes it.

Stiles clasps his hands on the table, slouching forward with a grin, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Their eyes stay on each other, oblivious to the small amounts of noise around them.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Stiles observes. “You must have been pretty busy.”

“You look pretty busy yourself.”

Stiles laughs, hand covering his mouth as he looks around at the decidedly _not_ busy shop; there are a couple of customers dotted here and there, but most of the tables are empty.

“Can I get you anything?” Stiles asks, he gestures at Derek’s mug. “I mean I got you coffee but you, you always want coffee, so that’s not really-. Do you want some food?”

Derek shakes his head, quietly pleased.

“I already ate,” he says. “I just wanted to see how you were.”

Stiles softens, brown eyes warm and tender as they wash over Derek’s face.

Derek coughs and takes a perfunctory sip of his coffee, though he can still feel Stiles’ eyes on him.

“How’s Scott?”

“Good.”

Derek nudges the mug back to its proper place, “You just saying that?”

“No,” Stiles replies, confused. There’s a beat and then his expression falls into concern. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Derek,” Stiles repeats cautiously. “What do you _mean?_ ”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Derek denies. He can tell that Stiles isn’t overly convinced so he tries to backtrack, “I saw that Rafael was in an accident a couple of days ago.”

That answer seems to deflate Stiles, he almost slumps before he catches himself and sits up straight, face impassive, hands pulling back to fall across his lap beneath the table.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods.

“What happened?”

Stiles purses his lips, shrugs his shoulders, expression stagnant with bitter resonance, “Just drunk kids.”

“You sound like you don’t believe that,” Derek utters quietly.

It’s the wrong thing to say and Derek realises that immediately. Stiles’ gaze sharpens and he stares at Derek, shrewd and calculating.

“And _you_ sound like you know something I don’t.”

Derek looks back at him, licks his lips, “I just know you, Stiles.”

There's a long pause.

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Okay.”

Derek takes another cautionary sip of his hot coffee, not wanting to scald his tongue.

He devotes his entire attention to it, feeling the weight of Stiles’ eyes on him, but he doesn’t want to look up because the gentleness in Stiles’ gaze is entirely too much.

“Okay,” Stiles echoes, clearing his throat. “Scott misses you.”

From the way that Stiles is speaking, he could almost be talking about himself.

“He keeps asking me to invite you to dinner,” Stiles continues, a shrug accompanying his bashful smile. He bites his lip and regards Derek.

“You should come,” he says. “You should come and see him.”

Stiles’ consideration touches Derek and makes him uncomfortable all at the same time; he doesn’t know where he stands at this point, where he fits in within Stiles’ life. The only thing he does know is that he _wants_.

Derek stares at the other man, studying him quietly.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, voice unexpectedly thick and rough. “I’d like that.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be honest here, I have no idea HOW Scott popped out. My top three options are a) Mpreg; b) Surrogacy; c) Raf knocked somebody up and Stiles brought up the kid as his own.  
> It's not that particularly important to the plot though, so ... do with that what you will.  
> See you soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter: violence, lots and lots of violence - and also death, so there is that.  
> Here is where we gain our rating. For the blood and the maiming and the, y'know, _murder_. But you guys can handle that, right?  
>  Right? 
> 
> It's also half two in the morning, and I just can't anymore. I'll edit this in the morning, so I'm sorry for any erroneous typos.

-

It’s on a clear day that Derek stands in front of the Echo Park fountain, sun hidden behind misty clouds, civilians milling around and ducks waddling aimlessly through the water.

Beside him is Rafael; most of his bruises have all but faded by now, except for the worst ones over his brow bone and the hinge of his jaw.

It’s an odd place to have a meeting, Derek knows, but it’s also the safest manner of ensuring that Argent’s men don’t jump them.

Argent, the man who Rafael owes money to, stands in front of them. He’s tall, with iced blue eyes and a grave disposition, wearing a utility jacket and jeans. The way that he stands screams with military precision and it’s clear to Derek that Rafael is clearly intimidated by the man.

“If I drive for you,” Derek tells him, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders straight, chin up. “You get your money.”

Argent’s face is calm, almost impassive, the only trace of emotion being the slight tilt of amusement to his lips.

“You tell me where we start, where we’re going, where we’re going afterwards,” Derek recites, calm and clipped. “I’ll give you five minutes when we get there, anything happens in those five minutes and I’m yours, no matter what. Anything happens a minute either side of that and you’re on your own.”

He pauses, glances at Rafael and then back to Argent.

“I don’t sit in while you’re running it down,” Derek continues, quietly, even though his skin is crawling with the feeling of airing out his business in public, secluded as they are. “I don’t carry a gun. I drive.”

When Derek has finished speaking, Argent lifts an eyebrow, “You look like you’re hard to work with.”

“Not if we understand each other.”

Argent smirks, “What’s to understand?”

Rafael takes half a step forward, “I can’t do this alone.”

“You’ve got Blake,” Argent dismisses easily, ignoring Rafael’s half-hearted mutterings. “Look at her, she’s beautiful.”

The woman Argent gestures to, is sitting a little way away from their huddle. She’s perched on one of the low walls surrounding the greenery of the park.

Blake's close enough to still be within hearing range, but far enough to keep up an act of aloof disinterest. She's smoking a cigarette, dark brown hair falling in waves over her face and over the loose black tank top she’s wearing beneath her jacket.

She looks over with a delicate arch of her brow when she hears her name, smoke billowing out from her glossed lips and fingers gently tapping the cinders from her cigarette on to the leaf-strewn ground.

Blake pauses, and then turns her gaze back to the fountain.

Argent stares at her, demands, “What the fuck are you rolling your eyes at?” 

The man thins his lips and Blake doesn’t answer, but the quirk of her brow is telling all the same.

“You know what? Get the fuck out of here,” Argent snaps, annoyed but not particularly surprised at her attitude. “Get up.”

“Rafael,” he barks turning to them now and gesturing with a quick jerk of his head. “Take her with you and get her a fucking Coke.”

Blake takes her sweet time getting up, placing her bag over her shoulder and shaking out her hair before she stands, circling around Derek to walk down the path without a single glance back to Argent.

Rafael hesitates, throwing a look at Derek, who is steadily staring at Argent, trying to learn the man’s quirks, before he takes off after Blake.

Argent doesn’t even bother waiting until they’re out of ear-shot before he’s moving forward, hands at his side, a swaggering stride that pushes straight through Derek’s personal space.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Argent reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a black marker pen and starts to write on his hand. “This much for Blake, this much for _that_ fucking asshole,” Argent gestures loosely towards the fading figures of Blake and Rafael in the distance. “And this much for you.”

He holds up the palm of his hand to Derek, and there in blocky letters are the words “FUCK OFF.”

Derek stares at the palm of the man’s hand before he slides his eyes to his.

Argent smirks, “Still interested?”

All of Derek’s instincts are telling him to walk away, to be done with this asshole; everything about this job jars against the carefully constructed routine he’s built around his driving career.

But he thinks of Scott and he thinks of Stiles, he looks Argent calmly in the eye and he stays exactly where he is.

“Good,” Argent taunts. “Anything else?”

The way that Argent says it tells Derek that it isn’t really a question, but rather a demonstration of dominance; but, unluckily for Argent, he seems to be unaware of how balanced the power equilibrium actually is.

Derek stares at him, eyes locked with Argent just long enough for the moment to be prolonged into awkwardness, he sees the man shift subtly in discomfort even though he hides it, even though he stares back at Derek, second for second.

“When you get your money back,” Derek declares, low and careful. “His debt’s paid. He’s out for good and you never go near his family again.”

He pauses, lets Argent ingest the information for a minute and then, echoing him he says, “You understand?”

-

Later that night, Derek is sitting at the table in Stiles’ apartment, he’s sitting in front of Scott while Rafael and Stiles are sitting opposite each other.

Rafael is in high spirits, beaming at Stiles, evidently oblivious to the tension of everybody else in the room.

Even Scott isn’t exempt from it; the little boy is fiddling with his glass of lemonade, wide eyes flickering over from Rafael to Derek and back again.

He’s been quiet all evening, and Stiles had noticed, stealing worried glances at Scott every few minutes, tapping cheeks with a gentle order to, “Eat your dinner,” before smiling at his son.

“You want to hear a story?” Rafael asks Scott, leaning his elbow on the table to scoot down to his eye level. “You wanna hear how daddy and me met?”

Next to Derek, Stiles exhales a shaky, awkward laugh. Scott, on the other hand, nods, smiling shyly at his father, “Yeah.”

Scott's eyes stray towards Derek immediately after, wiping his mouth self-consciously with the back of his hand, the look on his face betraying how uneasy the kid really feels.

The tension feels fraught and Derek is sitting quietly in his chair, hands falling from where they're paused with his wrists resting on the edge of the table to fold in his lap, smiling a little bitterly to himself.

Rafael is doing it on purpose. Derek knows this because he’s knows that Rafael has seen all the looks passing between he and Stiles over the course of dinner; how their eyes stayed on each other as Stiles served Derek, as their gazes never went to long without drifting to each other.

“Yeah?” Rafael says to Scott. “Okay. So, I’m at a New Year’s party, at some bar or other, and I see the most _beautiful_ boy I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Stiles is cutting through his food, eyes on his plate as he tries his hardest not to be embarrassed.

“And he was nineteen years old-”

“Seventeen,” Stiles corrects.

“You weren’t seventeen,” Rafael says, confusion marking his face.

Stiles' head snaps up, surprise marking his face and blush heating his cheeks. It’s evident that his correction was an automatic one, so now he straightens up, clears his throat, awkward in his discomfort, “I was.”

“Wow,” Rafael responds, eyebrows lifting high. “So it was illegal?”

Stiles laughs a little, “Yeah.”

Rafael’s surprise is quickly doused into entertainment and he turns towards Scott again, “So, I _illegally_ walked up to a seventeen year old boy and I said: ‘Hello, mister. What’s your name?’”

Stiles rubs the back of his neck with his fingers, he glances at Derek, smiling awkwardly. He feels Stiles' gaze on him, even as he's still digesting the words out of Rafael’s mouth, every word hitting him like an iron-hot brand.

Derek catches Stiles' eyes but quickly turns away, looking at Rafael, at Scott before finally settling on the middle distance. Beside him, Stiles’ expression falls with the look of palpable discomfort on Derek’s face.

“And he didn’t say anything,” Rafael continues telling Scott. “He was a hard one to crack, your father. But, I stood there and I said, ‘Well, my name is Rafael McCall.’”

Rafael pauses for effect and then he morphs his face into one of exaggerated shock, “And he _still_ didn’t say anything.”

He throws his hands in the air in mock bafflement and Scott bursts out laughing, turning his face to share his smile with Stiles.

“So then,” Rafael leans close to Scott. “Then I said, ‘You’ve been drinking an awful lot tonight.” He turns to Stiles, “And what did you say?”

Stiles looks caught, he visibly hesitates, eyes flickering over to Derek before he turns back to Rafael. Derek works on keeping himself perfectly still, gaze fixed on the table and teeth biting into the inside of his bottom lip.

“I said,” Stiles stalls haltingly, licking his lips; he throws another quick glance at Derek. “I said: ‘You want to do a field sobriety test? We’ll do the alphabet; start with F end with U.’”

Rafael starts to laugh on the other side of the table, sharp chuckles that seem to shake his entire frame, Scott grins without really knowing why.

“He’s good,” Rafael is saying, still laughing. “Quick and sharp. It killed me.”

Of course, Derek’s gaze ends up sliding over to Stiles and when Stiles looks at him, Derek tries to smile a little through his discomfort, Stiles’ eyes thoughtfully flitting all over his face.

Derek turns back to Rafael just in time to catch the man’s own gaze turn quickly from Derek and Stiles over to Scott.

“And then a year later you popped out,” Rafael says to him, extending a fist for Scott to bump. “It was the best day of my life.”

-

Later, towards the end of the evening when dinner is all but finished and they're loitering at the dinner table, Stiles leans across the table, fingers gently carding through Scott’s dark curls.

“You don’t want to eat anymore,” he’s murmurs quietly to his son, Scott’s shaking his head. “You sure?”

Beside them Rafael is looking on, fondness marking his face, and Derek realises with a pang that that’s the look of a man with his heart and soul centred in the two people in front of him.           

“I’m here with my family,” Rafael says, lifting his glass. He looks at Derek, “And my new friend, a toast to the future.”

The harmonious tinkle of glass is soft and virtuous. Though there’s a tightness in Derek’s throat, something immovable and chaotic sitting beneath his skin that makes it doubly hard to smile genuinely at Scott when the kid reaches forward to knock his glass against Derek’s.

“This time next week,” Rafael now says to Stiles, who smiles at him, gentle in encouragement. “I’m taking you and Scott away with me.”

Stiles stops; his face falls, he freezes completely as he watches Rafael with unabashed surprise.

“Where do you want to go, Scott?” Rafael asks.

The look that Stiles throws Derek shows exactly how much Rafael’s quiet confidence concerns him.

“Disneyland,” Scott beams.

“Forget Disneyland,” Rafael declares grandiosely, affectionately pinching Scott’s chin before he straightens up. “I’m going to take you and your father away from this bullshit city -”

“Scott,” Stiles interrupts. “It’s time for bed.”

On the other side of the table, Rafael is still addressing Scott.

“Your papa’s got it all figured out,” he’s saying conspiratorially, tapping his finger to his nose. “I’m going to take you and your dad to-”

“Raf,” Stiles’ interjection this time is quiet, loaded. Rafael mollifies immediately, and the two have a silent conversation across the table by way of glances and minute gestures; Derek looks away.

“Okay,” Rafael eventually acquiesces, sighing. “Okay. I should probably-, I’ll take Scott to bed.”

He stands up from his seat, lifting Scott up in his arms and groaning, “Come to Papa,” even as he jokes, “You’ve gotten heavier, have you eaten a whole entire horse or something?”

Derek watches them as Rafael carries Scott to his bedroom; it’s clear how much Rafael cares for him.

Stiles waits until they’re gone before he turns to Derek, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” he replies easily, but he senses that that’s not all. Stiles is all uneasy expressions and jittery limbs, so Derek asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Derek lifts an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“It’s just that-,” Stiles hesitates, torn. “When he talks like that, about taking us away. _Every_ time he talks like that he’s in some kind of trouble.”

Stiles bites down on his lip, looking worried, his eyes shadowed over with trepidation; after a second he shakes his head, trying to dispel the deep anxiety he feels.

He stands, clearing up some plates. Derek waits a beat, breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly.

Then, he gets up and silently begins to help.

-

The midday sun beats down on a maze of cars; Derek strolls past rows and rows of glittering motors until he spots a gleaming black Ford Mustang.

He hijacks it easily, leather gloves handling the slim-jim with delicate precision as he inserts into the driver’s side window.

By the time that Derek gets to the designated spot some hours later, he’s sitting in the car as if it’s his retreat from the world. Rafael is sitting beside him in the passenger seat, looking tense; Blake is leaning against the side of the shop, arms crossed, expression blank and her blue Louboutin balota sandals crossed neatly over each other.

Derek stares out, and he then turns on the stopwatch with a tap of his leather-gloved finger.

“You’ve got five minutes,” Derek says.

Rafael is still staring ahead, but Derek can sense his fear. He slips on his sunglasses, opens the door, “I’ll see you in four.”

Derek watches as Rafael strides through the parking lot, tucking his gun in his waistband, and how Blake follows him, her heels making a sharp, echoing tap across the lot.

He watches as Rafael opens the door, how Blake flounces through it with a nod of thanks, and how they disappear into the shop, one after the other.

Derek settles back in his seat, car humming steadily beneath him, police scanner crackling and the recognisable tick-tick-ticking of the stopwatch. He watches and he listens, finding his balance again in the familiarity of the ritual.

The pawnshop is nothing much to look at from the outside, nothing but another anonymous LA storefront. Derek’s parked the mustang a hundred yards from the entrance, and now he casts his eyes about, observing the smallest of details – the number plates of the other vehicles, the wide expanse of almost nothingness around them.

The sun is white hot, reflecting down on the pawnshop windows, hiding everything inside and the police scanner spits and sputters, but picks up no activity.

Derek is watching intently, heart steady in his chest, seconds counting down with the rhythmic cluck of the stopwatch.

Just over a minute in, another car pulls into the lot. To the ordinary eye, it’s not different than the other cars parked throughout the lot; but to Derek, to Derek it stands out.

The car is a sleek Chrysler, the silver-blue tone of it glinting in the sunlight. It has reinforced bumpers, darkly tinted windows and racing tires; it circles in slowly, cruising past Derek’s parked Mustang before rolling around and parking parallel to Derek four spaces away.

Derek turns his head, fingers tapping idly on the steering wheel along with the seconds.

After a second Derek turns away, leaning elbow on the car window, the creak of leather loud in his ear as he tightens his hand into a fist and forces himself to concentrate on the pawnshop’s entrance.

Blake comes out of the door first; hair in a low ponytail, heels teetering on the asphalt and wielding a large black rucksack as she walks.

Derek leans over to the passenger seat, opening the door before pushing the front seat forward in one fluid motion.

Derek’s eye is still half on the Chrysler as Blake shoves the rucksack on the far side of the backseat before she follows.

He pushes the passenger seat upright as soon as Blake is in the car and he readies himself; one hand settles on the gearshift and the other wrap around the wheel, fingers fanning out before resettling.

Blake leans forward in the backseat and they both intently watch the entrance, eager for Rafael’s exit.

He comes out less than twenty seconds later, porch door swinging with a harsh noise on the hinge. Rafael tucks his gun as he walks, still half under shadow as he traverses the portico.

The sound of the gunshot that fires out is absolutely _earth shattering_ , a booming loud noise of a thing in the silence of the parking lot.

Blake gasps in shock, Derek startles, only hearing the cruel clinking of broken glass as an afterthought.

In front of them, Rafael stumbles low, fingers of one hand scrabbling against the ground to help keep him upright, his other hand is pressed to the wound on his neck.

His sunglasses have been blown halfway down his face, there’s blood all over him, though Derek doesn’t know whether it’s from the glass or from the gunshot, it doesn’t particularly matter.

Rafael fumbles forward, mouth open in soundless pain, hair flopping over where his eyes are blinking hard.

Derek hesitates, hands hovering over the steering wheel and heartbeat alarmed to a fast, uneven pace. But then he’s stepping out of the car, hands curled over the window as he casts his gaze over Rafael.

Another man strides out of the pawnshop just as Derek’s half-stepping towards them.

The man shoots Rafael without hesitation, the shot rings loud and clear, crashing through Rafael with a force that makes his knees buckle.

Derek jump back, heart in his throat and hands thrown up in front of his face.

The unknown man settles into an expert firing position as he squeezes off several shots into Rafael’s body, the force of the bullet sends the man flying; he’s dead before he hits the ground, lifeless body gurgling arterial blood into the cracks and crevices of the ground below.

Blake screams, ducking low in her car seat and Derek throws himself into the car, adrenaline fizzing through his body and his mind ripped back to survival mode.

He hits the gas just as more gunshots crack into the air behind him, he roars into motion, the car unsteady on its wheels, the passenger door still open as he careens over the surface of the lot.

The Chrysler suddenly comes to life, pulling out of the its parking space and screeching in its pursuit of Derek, leaving a trail of kicked up dust in its wake.

Blake, in the back looks terrified, fingers digging into the leather of the passenger seat as she collapses it and leans forward to close the door.

Derek floors the gas, he knows that based on speed and power, the car that he chose is no match at all for the Chrysler.

But in traffic, the odds are even.

Derek weaves his way past the slower cars, putting obstacles between himself and the Chrysler, gritting his teeth and squeezing his fingers around the steering wheel as he tries in vain to push the car further than its limit.

The Chrysler matches him move for move, staying determinedly on his tail. The Chrysler’s driver is talented, rolling around the other cars on the road with a meticulousness that has a stringy fluttering of fear spreading out over Derek’s body.

They leave behind beeping horns and screeches of tires on the road, the Chrysler is trying to gain on them, reaching close enough to attempt to crash into the back of the mustang.

Blake turns back, glancing out of the window as the Chrysler creeps close.

“Shit,” she exclaims, fear straining out her voice into a raucous shrill. “Oh _god_.”

Ahead, Derek spies a traffic crossing and he careens over the road, barely skimming the other cars on the road as he weaves in between them with honed exactness.

He swerves left and then suddenly makes a hard right onto an almost deserted canyon road, dust particles clouding the air around them.

There are a few more cars left on this road, only a handful but they’re coming from the opposite direction as Derek manoeuvres around the twists and turns of the road.

The Chrysler soon catches up with him, and then there are no more cars left on the road but them. It’s car against car now, on a wide stretch of an empty desert road.

There aren’t any more fancy tricks Derek can do now, he knows, only attempts at evasion.

Determination as well as trepidation marks Derek’s expression, and his face is more open than it has been in years, every single facet of anxiety showing clear as day.

He continually glances in the rear view mirror, pressing down on the gas with all of his might but it’s no use, the mustang is at its capacity.

The Chrysler gets close enough to pit the mustang, driving its nose against the rear corner of Derek’s car. It hangs back for a moment before it does it again, hard and fast.

This time, Derek is almost run off the road, but he manages to save it and he quickly regains control of the car.

The Chrysler pulls out wide to build momentum, preparing to smash into him. Derek has no doubts, that if the Chrysler hits him this time, there’s be no chance of getting out of this.

Derek thinks fast, car vibrating under stress beneath him, heart pounding in his throat, blood rushing painfully across ever inch of him and he makes a decision.

As the Chrysler moves in to deliver the knockout blow, Derek pulls the emergency break, spinning one hundred and eighty degrees.

It causes the Chrysler to miss, and the driver of the car loses control of it for a brief moment.

Now the two cars are nose-to-nose, barrelling down the road; Derek driving in reverse as fast as he can, bracing himself on the seat and gritting his teeth with nervous foreboding and the Chrysler closing in fast. 

The car strives forward, ramming into Derek’s front bumper; the force of it separating the two cars for an instant.

The Chrysler guns it, ready to smash into Derek again. But Derek has already clocked an upcoming three-way intersection dotted with construction equipment in his rear-view mirror.

In a last ditch attempt to evade his pursuer, Derek throws in a reverse one-eighty.

He blinks; the moment seems to last for an eternity, the outside world snuffing out in favour of a darkness that is characterised by trepidation and sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat.

But then, incredibly, in a mind-blowingly, stunningly crafted strain of luck, the car _keeps going_ ; spinning a full two hundred and seventy degrees before it reels shakily down the road.

Derek’s watching the road wide-eyed and open-mouthed, his breath leaving him in a dumbfounded exhale, he can hardly believe it.

The Chrysler tries to make the same turn, but this time the manoeuvre is beyond his capabilities and Derek’s fooled him into a corner he can’t control.

Time seems to slow down as the Chrysler crashes into the construction equipment, a sickening crunch of metal on metal reaching Derek’s ears.

He doesn’t stick around to see what’s been made of the car, or whether his pursuers are alive or not; Derek guns the motor and he speeds away.

-

In the room of a motel on the outskirts of town, the black gym bag lies open on a double bed, full to the brim with stacks and stacks of cash; Blake sits on the bed beside it, looking pale.

Derek is standing by the closed window, hand curled around the police scanner and the other holding open a small gap in the closed curtains as he keeps a careful eye out on parking lot outside.

“How much did Argent say you were going to get?” he asks Blake.

She glances at the bag, staring at how much money there is,  _more_ money than there should be, for a long second before she looks back at Derek, “Forty Grand.”

They stare at each other; she’s still shaken by the car chase, the lingering traces of fear in her eyes. Derek’s own gaze is calculated and distant, ice-cold as he regards her.

He throws the scanner on the bed, says, “Stay here,” and he steps out of the door without waiting for an answer.

Outside, Derek casts a cursory glance around. He’s alone, but he still hesitates before he dials a number on his cell-phone.

It rings once, twice and half way through a third time before it’s picked up and Scott answers.

“Hello?”

“Scott,” Derek says, closing his eyes briefly at the spark of relief he feels at hearing the kid’s voice. “Is that you?”

“Yeah?”

“Hey.”

“Hi,” he replies, sounding a little confused at the stress in Derek’s voice.

“Is your dad there?”

“Um, he’s sitting down,” Scott says, Derek can hear his breath over the phone as Scott, presumably, checks where Stiles is. “With the police.”

Derek pauses, sighing uneasily, “Okay, just tell him that I’ll call later, alright?”

“Okay,” Scott says easily. “Bye.”

When Scott hangs up, Derek realises with a twist of his gut that the kid doesn’t know about Rafael yet.

Derek re-enters the motel room to find a soap opera playing on the cheap television, Blake disinterestedly watching it; though she looks more relaxed as she reclines on the bed, she then turns a wary gaze on to Derek.

Derek ignores her, picking up the remote to flick through the channels trying to find a breaking news story on the robbery.

He doesn’t find one until much later, until he’s sitting on the floor beside the door and he’s taken both his jacket and his gloves off.

On the screen, above the reporter’s head is a police mugshot of Rafael and the news reporter is halfway through her exposé.

“… The armed robber was pronounced dead at the scene,” the reporter is saying. “He was identified as Rafael McCall of Echo Park, Los Angeles …”

Derek listens to the report in silence as the newscaster goes on.

“Other details are unclear,” the woman says. “But the owner of the pawn shop told reporters that McCall acted alone and that no money had been stolen. In other news, four high school athletes were arrested …”

Derek switches off the television, staring at it in blank-faced surprise, the tick in his jaw jumping as he turns his hard gaze towards Blake.

He waits until she looks at him and then carefully, methodically, reaches into his back pockets and pulls out his leather gloves.

Blake’s gaze goes to them as Derek slowly slides them on, her face hardening into fear, lips parting a little as she watches him.

“If he saw you take the money,” Derek muses quietly, fingers stretching out the material of one leather glove. “And he saw you get in the car, then why didn’t he say anything?”

Blake’s chest heaves noticeably and her voice, when she speaks, is breathy and thin, “I have no idea.”

She watches as Derek stands up and slides the chain lock on the motel room door closed, she blinks repeatedly as Derek moves over to tower over her, pulling on his leather glove to fit more snuggly around his wrist.

“Did you have any idea that there’d be a second car?” Derek asks; he’s not looking at her, his voice is toneless and flat.

Blake's eyes stay on him even as his shadow falls over her, “I already told you everything.”

Derek stops, stares at her for a a long strenuous beat, then his hand is raking across her face in a hard, stinging slap.

The sound of leather on skin is crude and foul, and the hand that Derek puts on her face, fingers digging into either side of her cheeks, muffles Blake’s cries.

Derek tightens his fingers and pushes her down on the bed, pointing a finger in her face; her hands come up to rest on either side of her head in a surrendering gesture.

“Now,” Derek chides, his voice is quiet, calm, unhurried. “You just got a little boy’s father killed. You almost got _us_ killed.”

Derek squeezes his hand a little, just enough to hurt, and Blake sobs beneath him, gaze locked on where Derek is standing above her, finger pointed down.

“And now you’re lying to me,” Derek continues, eyes boring down on her; he adjusts his hand, manoeuvering to slowly cut off her air supply. “So, how about this? From now on, every word out of your mouth is the truth.”

He pauses, waiting as the panic settles into her eyes and she can’t breathe; Blake nods frantically, tears gathering in the mascara-laden lashes of her eyes. Derek waits a little longer, squeezes a little tighter, until her sobs are pushing against the leather covering his palm.

“Or I’m going to hurt you. Understand?” Derek moves his hand a little, freeing up Blake’s mouth and nose. “Now, what did Argent tell you?”

Blake inhales large lungfuls of shaky breaths, chest rattling, eyes blinking hard.

“He said there’d be another car to hold us up,” she stammers once she has her breath back, getting more worked up the more she speaks. “But he didn’t say anything about all this money. He didn’t say anything about anybody getting killed.”

“You were going to rip us off?” Derek asks, his voice is still soft but Blake is terrified of him.

She hesitates, before tentatively nodding her head with harsh breaths and half a wince, anticipating another blow.

Derek watches her coolly, “What’s his real name?”

“He says it’s Chris,” Blake says, faltering a little. “But I just call him Argent.”

“You’re going to take me to him,” Derek commands. “Right now. Do you understand?”

Blake gulps, breathes in shakily, “Yes.”

Derek lets go of her slowly, hand sliding over her jaw, but he doesn’t move away entirely, still hovering above her as Blake blinks, licks her lips and carefully sits up.

She rubs the back of her hand over her mouth and stands up once again, heading into the bathroom and leaving Derek alone.

He can still hear her crying as she cleans her face and applies lipstick in the bathroom; Derek’s on sitting on the bed, trying to formulate a plan.

Blake’s phone, which had fallen on the bed, is up against Derek's thigh when it vibrates.

It’s a text message from an unknown number, containing only the word “Now.”

Derek freezes, his entire body clinching with dread. He looks into the open door of the bathroom, where Blake is still stood over the sink.

He quickly checks her call log, realising that she’d called the same number about twenty-five minutes before, right around the time he’d stepped out to call Stiles.

Argent must be whom she’d called, Derek thinks. He stares at her, jaw tightening.

Just then, a silhouette of a person crosses the windows outside. A second later, the handle of the motel room starts to turn, quick and methodical.

Derek stands, turns quickly on his heel and hefts the mattress of the double bed up, shoving it towards the motel room door; from the bathroom comes roar of a shotgun, echoing off of the tiles and rebounding into the main room.

The hitman who’s just shot through the bathroom window reloads, fires off another shot that hits Derek’s upper arm.

The force of it crashes Derek into the mattress that he’s shoving up against the front door. The pain of the wound doesn’t register, adrenaline running too coarsely in his blood, and there’s a ringing in his ears.

It makes everything sound distant and mechanic, isolated and ancient. Derek hides behind one of the niches of the room, stuck between the hitman that’s trying to push his way through the front door and the other who is crashing through the remainder of the window with his shotgun.

Derek plasters himself against the wall, breathing heavily, panic welling up in his chest and he has the overwhelming need to break down and cry. But he pushes that part of himself away, breathes in quick and harsh and he _thinks_.

Derek waits as the first hitman makes it inside the bathroom, knowing it’s only a matter of time until the other hitman begins to shoot through the door itself.

The shotgun peeks out of the bathroom first and Derek seizes his opportunity; he uses the man’s momentum to drive the shotgun back into his chest, shoving backwards until he loses his balance and crashes against the windowsill.

In the main room, the other hitman has crashed through the chain-lock on the door, but his entrance is hindered by the mattress that wedges the door shut.

Derek repeatedly punches the hitman he has de-weaponed, fist curled up in his t-shirt to hold him in place. When the man is sufficiently dazed, Derek reaches into the window where, at the top, some sharp shards of glass still hangs.

He loosens the biggest one in his hand and, wielding it like a dagger, stabs it through the hitman’s chest; impaling him on the glass as the blood spurts from his body and drenches Derek.

Derek waits until the man is dead, spinning around to grab his shotgun from the floor. He almost trips over Blake’s body, one quick glance and he knows she’s dead; half of her head is blown off, brain matter and bits of hair still attached to bloody pieces of scalp scattered across the tiles.

Derek himself is covered in blood, over his hair and his face, over his t-shirt and the tops of his jeans.

By the time that the second gunman forces himself into the room, Derek’s ready: firing off a blast from the shotgun before the other man has a chance to point his gun at Derek.

The gunman falls down, blood spurting from his stomach as his eyes glaze over.

Just like that, the startling explosion of violence is over, as soon as it began. Derek wields the shotgun as he checks the window, checking that there aren’t any more assailants.

He’s breathing heavily, mostly through his mouth, to try and alleviate the rancid stench of blood that now permeates the air. His arms throbs with a phantom pain that that promises to be wicked and sharp as soon as the adrenaline rush dies does.

There’s blood splattered everywhere, and outside the neon lights from the motel room’s exterior are flashing through the window and over the dead man’s face, but there are no panicked footsteps or sirens yet.

Derek stays quiet, retreating further into the shadows as he tries to figure out the next steps in his plan, breath seeming savage in the noiselessness of the motel room.

- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's actually probable if Stiles had Scott, like actually birthed him - since he was eighteen and it was most likely a kind of _surprise_ -you're-gonna-be-a-parent kind of thing, so yeah we'll go with mpreg, it's the most plausible scenario ... and there's a sentence I never thought I'd utter in my life. Thanks, fanfiction. 
> 
> Goodnight guys, see you soon. 
> 
> (p.s. Derek is _not_ a nice person, certainly not one to be crossed with amirite?)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to upload this last night and I wrote until like quarter past one in the morning but I still had like, a third of it left. Then my body was like 'You know what? Fuck you, Tania,' and just shut down. 
> 
> That's the story of how me falling asleep at half one in the morning is still much earlier than I have in the past two months. So hurrah for that and whatnot. 
> 
> This chapter includes much more violence and one particularly gruesome death, so try to skim over it if you've just eaten or if you value your ability to sleep nightmare-free.
> 
> Nah, I'm kidding. It's gory but no more so than an episode of Hannibal or something. Though, I had to watch this scene so I could write it (because it's different in the original script) and I was literally watching it between my fingers. 
> 
> I don't particularly like violence, I'm a pacifist as well as a good ol' wimp and I make no apologies for whimpering like a baby whilst watching the violent scenes of this movie.

-

Derek goes to Bobby’s.

He barely remembers getting there and he doesn’t at all remember that he called Bobby in the first place, but it’s instinct by now, to go to him when he’s in trouble.

The doctor Bobby has on hand is one of his shady contacts, a shabbily dressed doc who is way past his prime, but Derek isn’t in any position to complain.

They set up in Bobby’s back office, with a desk lamp hanging low over Derek’s arm, illuminating the doctor’s work.

Bobby stands beside Derek, holding a shallow metal basin to catch the pieces of metallic shrapnel that embedded in Derek’s arm from the shotgun blast.

“Careful, _careful_ ,” Bobby hisses at the doctor, placing a free hand on Derek’s shoulder after the fifth consecutive time he winces.

Derek endures the hateful procedure with gritted teeth and alcohol in his blood.

An hour later, he’s hanging out of the backseat window of one of Bobby’s parked vintage cars.

He braces his right arm on the windowsill, resting his chin on it, whilst his other arm, bandaged and throbbing, hangs idly out of the window. He stretches his fingers, cartilage and veins alike rising beneath the surface of his skin, before he closes his hand into a tight fist; just to hear his bones pop, to feel that burning pain shoot up his arm like poison.

Bobby limps his way beside Derek, leaning back against the car. The garage is cool and quiet, shadowed with darkness and the smoke from Bobby’s cigarette filters out into the air like delicate cobwebs.

They stay there in silence for a while, Derek staring at the black nothingness of the reflection of the car opposite and Bobby inhaling his nicotine smoke with deep, grateful breaths.

“What did you do with the cash?” Bobby eventually asks; Derek’s not surprised, he’d seen the question bubbling beneath the Bobby’s eyes since the minute he walked in, empty-handed.

The cash is safe, hidden in a place so obvious it runs a full circle and becomes discreet again; but Bobby doesn’t know that, Derek hasn’t said anything.

“Because, y’know,” Bobby hedges, like he can’t quite help himself. “I could keep it safe for you.”

“Would you just stop?” Derek says. He doesn’t sigh, but the tone of his voice is so close to it, that he might as well have.

Silence descends once again.

Derek can feel his pulse in his arm, like his blood is tripping over itself. It makes his stomach roll and his mind uneasy; he focuses on Bobby’s steady puffs of smoke instead.

“This guy, Argent,” Bobby goes on to say, after he’s lit a second cigarette, voice gone rough. “He have a name?”

“Chris,” Derek supplies, and then his mouth purses as he shrugs lightly. “Maybe.”

“I’ll ask Peter Hale if he knows him,” Bobby assures, nodding gravely.

Peter Hale is one of the two men that Bobby had persuaded to buy a stock car, so that he could build it up for Derek to drive, to win them some money in some races.

Out of the two business partners, Peter is the one that Derek met, weeks and weeks before at the Saugus Speedway as he finished a lap in his racecar.

The man had watched him with interest, Derek had finished a second faster than the fastest lap on record and he wasn’t even breaking a sweat; Bobby had looked like he could burst a lung in glee.

Derek had only agreed to the job because of Bobby, for nothing and nobody else. Because he’d been there to hear how frustrated Bobby was with the commerce he was getting for the garage.

“You run a perfectly good business,” Derek had told him once. “Why do you want to change now?”

Bobby had sighed, pinning Derek with a look.

“Kid, you know how much my business made last year?” Bobby had asked, exasperated. “Thirty Grand. Thirty! It takes me _six months_ for me to build a car and a couple of seconds for these jerks to write it off on a stunt that you risk your life for and it doesn’t even make it into the goddamn movie.”

So, Bobby had spent the last few weeks sidling up to Peter Hale and his business partner, Deucalion, two of the most notorious mobsters this side of the coast, in order to keep himself firmly insinuated with their crowd.

If anyone were to know who Argent really was, Derek is sure that Peter Hale would a most probable candidate.

“Jeez! I can’t-,” Bobby exhales, shaking his head and laughing as plummets of cigarette smoke froth in the air. “I just can’t stop thinking about what we could do with all that dough-”

“Will you just _stop_ it?” Derek repeats, a little more snappish this time as his jaw clenches.

“Alright,” Bobby storms, evidently losing patience with Derek; he turns a stern eye on him. “You know, a lot of guys mess around with married men, but you, _you_ kiddo, you’re the only one I know who robs a joint just to pay back the husband.”

Bobby huffs as he stands straighter, wincing at the pain from his gimp leg. He throws his hands up, proclaiming, “You’re _crazy_!”

Derek ignores him, he’s very much aware of that fact, but he doesn’t need his emotional weaknesses aired out.

Bobby hobbles away indignantly, but just before he disappears completely he stops, grumbling greatly before he looks at Derek.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells him, with begrudging affection, Derek is sure. “I’ll take care of it.” 

-

It takes over a week to find Argent; not that Derek thinks he’s hard to find, but rather that Bobby’s contact is strenuous at best, Peter seems to be exercising some sort of power play by making him wait.

Argent, it turns out, owns a strip club, because of course he does; and Derek goes to find him one afternoon in La Cienega.

Derek goes straight to the back, heading down some steep stairs into the backstage area. The corridor he finds himself in has a curtain of shimmering silver floor-length tassels on one side and a brick wall decorated with intermittent lights on the other.

From the stage shine the lights from the overhead beams, casting patterns and shapes through the tassels and across the dirty brick of the wall opposite.

It’s only late afternoon, so the crowd hasn’t arrived yet but for the over-zealous patrons, the music is already playing a steady, rippling base beat as the strippers lazily twirl around their poles.

There are doors to dressing rooms all the way down the corridor and up ahead of Derek stands an off-duty stripper.

She’s barefoot, wearing a high-waisted leopard print swimsuit that reveals more than it covers, and a salmon pink sheer robe over the top, texting on her cell phone as she jadedly chews gum.

Derek stops beside her, “Where’s Argent?”

“He’s in the dressing room,” the girl replies; she doesn’t bother looking up, thumbs flying over the screen, looking annoyed to have been disturbed.

“Where’s that?”

The girl looks up at him, and gestures with a loose hand and a disinterested jut of her chin, “It’s over there.”

Sensing that he’ll not be getting much more illuminating information from this girl, Derek walks on, casting a glace into the open doorways of the dressing rooms as he goes.

At the end of the corridor, is a shorter passageway leading to a large and bright room, lo and behold, Argent is in there.

Derek twirls his tongue around the toothpick he has in his mouth, biting down on it as he strides down the hallway, reaching back to take the hammer he’d stashed in the back of his jeans.

Argent is sitting at one of the tables backed up to the vanity mirrors towards the back, surrounded by beautiful, lingerie-clad strippers getting ready for their night.

Argent is sitting with his back to Derek, his face practically inhaling the naked skin of a stripper’s chest as they ‘talk’.

Derek doesn’t hesitate; ignoring the strippers’ impartial gazes, he walks straight up to Argent’s unknowing back and, holding down the man’s wrist, he brings down the hammer with unprecedented force.

He smashes the hammer into Argent’s hand three times, hearing the bone crunch and grind, the flesh spoil and the cartilages snap.

Argent screams, voice tearing out of his throat raw and unhinged; a handful of the girls scamper out of the room, bare-chested and scared, though a majority of them barely even move, casting their drugged-up eyes over the scene with cool detachment.

Derek uses both of his hands to push Argent back in his chair, both falling to the ground with a thump.

Argent cradles his smashed up left hand to his chest, chest heaving in laboured pain.

Derek kicks the chair away, circles Argent like a predator about to feast on his prey. From the inside of his pocket Derek takes out the bullet he’d gotten from Scott.

He puts his legs at either side of Argent’s prone body, crouching down low and kneeling on his arms to keep him down.

Staring at Argent, Derek places the bullet on the man’s forehead, between his brows, poising the hammer above it as if he’s readying himself for the blow.

“Whose money do I have?” Derek asks him, voice roughed out to a dangerous tone.

Below him, Argent is huffing out panting breaths, clearly still in pain and cautious of Derek; regardless he still answers with a sycophantic half-laugh amongst his pitiful wheezing.

“Don’t worry,” he says, smirk playing on his gasping lips. “They’ll come get it.”

Derek raises the hammer high, face twisting in consternation and absolutely prepared to smash the bullet into the man’s head.

Argent seems to realise that because his cocooned hands rise up feebly as he pants, “No! No!”

Derek’s shaking, he’s breathing heavily around the toothpick in his mouth, brimming with the need to just give in and kill this man for everything he’s fucked up.

Derek stops, but only _just_.

He satisfies himself by watching the nervous, furious pace of the man’s pulse on the side of his neck; he’s quivering like a trapped rabbit.

Derek rolls the bullet between his gloved fingers, metal glinting against the brown leather, harmless.

He places it right in front of the man’s eyes, growling, “Do you remember this?”

But it’s clear from the confusion in his eyes that Argent doesn’t, and that he doesn’t understand just what he did, exactly what kind of beast he awoke in Derek when he terrified a six year old boy by having his people hand him this bullet.

That in turn, makes Derek‘s insides tremble in anger.

Derek turns the hammer around in his hand, and then forces the two metal prongs into Argent’s mouth.

He settles it behind his bottom teeth, digging into the softness of his gums before he pulls down, constraining his mouth open.

Argent grows large round eyes to match his open maw, dark and cavernous, and his eyes shine with both the pain of the metal eating into his gums and the fear he now harbours for Derek.

Like this, Derek can see an uninterrupted path down the man’s gullet. He deposits the bullet there, and Argent immediately chokes, trying to hack it back up again, but Derek places a hand over his mouth, forces the fucker to swallow it.

He doesn’t let up until the bullet forces its way down Argent’s digestive tract.

Derek stares him down as he does, disgust twisting how mouth into something tight and fraught; he has an idea, he has an inkling of exactly _whose_ money it is he’s holding.

Argent is nothing but a shill, a cover for the big bosses behind.

Derek has an inkling, has had it ever since the pawnshop run; he just needs confirmation.

“Where’s his phone?” Derek barks to the room out loud.

One of the strippers, a stunning blonde in only a pair of laced frilly knickers walks up to Derek then, holding it forward, looking both entranced by Argent’s state and fearful of Derek himself.

She holds no loyalty for Argent, though Derek doubts that any of them do.

A quick look through Argent’s call log, Derek finds a number that is called far much more than any other. He presses call, stands up, pressing the sole of his boot to Argent’s wrist, applying just enough pressure to ensure that he won’t be getting up.

The dial tone drones on for a few seconds before a man answers, “Hello?”

“Deucalion?” Derek asks, voice callous and abrupt.

“No, sorry pal,” the man says, his tone too genial to belong to a mobster. “Why don’t you call back later? We’re closed.”

“I could,” Derek responds lightly. “But I think Deucalion would be upset that you made him wait.”

There’s a pause down the line, a faintly distinguishable sigh, “Can I ask what this is about?”

“I have something of his.”

“And that would be?” the voice drawls, clearly far less invested in this conversation than Derek is.

“A million dollars.”

The pause on the end of the phone this time is charged; Derek has obviously taken the man by surprise and his voice, when it comes back, is fraught with professionalism, “Please hold.”

Derek doesn’t have to wait long until another voice comes through the line.

It’s entirely different from the previous one, it’s distinguished and languid like honey, though terse with the peculiarity of its British accent, “You’ve got something that belongs to me?”

There’s absolutely no doubt that this is the famed Deucalion, the mere presence of his voice sends chills down Derek’s spine; it’s utmost confirmation that he’s involved with the bigger, more dangerous games now.

He flares his fingers around the handle of the hammer, “Seems that way.”

“And you’re calling me, why?” Deucalion says, soft and contemplative. “Do you expect me to buy my own things back from you?”

“I’m not selling it,” Derek says, his breathing getting shaky. He hates feeling like this, like a small fish in a big pond; or worse yet, a child in a roomful of adults. “I’m going to give you a time and a place and you’re going to come and get it.”

Deucalion pauses on the other end of the line, and the moment drifts over the phone, it makes Derek feel ridiculed, like he’s just amusing the man.

He adjusts his stance, pressing down more firmly on Argent, “Do you understand?”

“And what do you get out of it?” Deucalion asks, voice gentle enough to sound genuinely curious.

“Just that,” Derek says; he can feel sweat pinpricking all over his skin, bursts of heat agonising over him as he speaks. “Out of it.”

“And your partners are happy with that?”

Derek’s fingers are shaking, the hammer wobbling in his grip, “I don’t have any partners.”

“You discuss this with anybody else?”

Derek swallows, “No. Just you.”

The silence from Deucalion is distinctively amused this time, entirely patronising.

“You’re not very good at this are you?”

Derek breathes tersely, hangs up, dial tone loud and shrill in his ear.

-

Stiles opens his door in a daze. It’s been over a week and a half since Derek’s seen him, over a week and a half since Rafael’s death; it’s clearly taken a toll on him.

He looks exhausted, his skin is devoid of colour, his bones stand out in sharp relief and his eyes are a startling brown amidst the shadows beneath them.

He’s surprised to see Derek, that much is clear, and he seems to stop breathing for a long, long time, eyes casting over him like he doesn’t quite believe that Derek is really there.

Derek, for his part, finds it undeniably hard to look at Stiles, eyes flitting about the place before finally settling tentatively on his face.

He has his hands stuffed in his pockets, throat swallowing convulsively, he looks over Stiles’ shoulder; Cindy is on the couch in Stiles’ living room, Scott tucked into her side and wrapped in blankets.

Then Stiles exhales, long and quiet.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“I-. I was-,” Derek begins haltingly, though try as he may, the words don’t seem to come easily. He tries not to shrug helplessly but he doesn’t quite manage it.

“Busy?” Stiles guesses after a moment, Derek can feel the weight of his gaze on him even as he stares at Stiles’ shoulder. “Too busy pick up the phone, Derek?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says; he hesitates but then: “I was-. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“I can’t talk,” Stiles says, gesturing at his work uniform beneath his plaid overshirt. “I have to go.”

“Let me give you a ride then,” Derek says, regretting it immediately for the way that Stiles flinches, his grip on the doorknob tightening.

Derek jolts, words fumbling for release in his mouth.

“I didn’t-,” he falters, gaze quietly beseeching. The fists in his pocket pushing hopelessly against the material towards the other man, “Stiles, I-. I didn’t mean-.”

“The jeep is working fine,” Stiles insists, gaze pointedly fixed somewhere beyond Derek.

Scott appears in Derek’s sight then, devoid of the blankets he’d had around him as he wraps and arm around the bulk of Stiles’ thigh, resting his head on his dad’s hip.

Stiles’ hand comes to automatically settle on top of Scott’s hair, looking down at his son as the kid greets Derek with a quiet, “Hi.”

“Hey,” Derek replies, voice softening without really meaning to, as he looks him. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Derek watches him steadily but he can’t find any more words of comfort.  Scott merely nods, turning to push his face into Stiles’ thigh, hiding his expression.

Stiles cards gentle fingers through his hair, fingertips rubbing soothing circles into his son’s head.

Derek clears his throat quietly, catches Stiles’ eye, “Can I just walk with you for a little-.”

Derek’s sentence veers off into silence and he stands there, feeling awkward and uncouth.

Stiles seems to take pity on him though, gaze softening.

“Yeah,” he says, barely audible. He turns and picks up Scott, taking him back to Cindy on the couch.

He crouches in front of where Scott is sitting, rewrapping a blanket around his son’s shoulders and tucking it around him.

“I’ll be back before you go to bed,” Stiles murmurs, pushing Scott’s curls away from his face. “How’s that sound?”

Scott nods, but Stiles hesitates, gaze flickering over his son, “Are you going to be okay?”

He doesn’t answer, but Cindy leans forward, hand light on Stiles’ arm, “We’ll be fine.”

Stiles lets Cindy pull him into a brief hug, wrapping one arm around her whilst the other stays on Scott’s knees.

Cindy whispers something in Stiles’ ear, which has him nodding in gratefulness before he pulls away.

He steals a finger beneath Scott’s chin, tipping his face up, “Hey, tell me one thing.”

“I love you,” Scott says habitually, leaning into his father’s touch.

“I love _you_ ,” Stiles responds, kissing Scott’s forehead before he stands up. “Be good,” Stiles says to him, picking up his wallet and his keys as he heads towards the door.

He’s shoving both in his back pocket as he walks past Derek, closing the door behind him.

They head down the long corridor in silence, Derek walking half a pace behind Stiles.

His hand darts out to wrap around Stiles’ elbow before the other man has a chance to jab the elevator button.

He turns Stiles to face him, “I have to tell you something.”

Stiles shrugs lightly, pressing his lips together, his eyes rove over Derek’s face in quiet concern, “So speak.”

Derek lets go of Stiles’ arm, steps back a little, fixes his eyes on the hollow of Stiles’ throat.

“Rafael was into some,” Derek pauses, taking a deep breath, gathering courage to look Stiles in the eye. “He owed guys in prison for a lot of money.”

Derek stops, licks his lips, “They were going to hurt you and Scott if he didn’t pay it.”

Stiles begins to see the guilt in Derek’s eyes, and the dawning realisation hits him slowly, like molasses.

“He asked me for my help,” Derek continues as Stiles stares in disbelief, reeling. “Everything went wrong. I’m sorry.”

Stiles curls his hand into a fist, drawing his arm back before Derek can properly comprehend it.

His knuckles crash against Derek’s cheek, punching him clean across the face. Derek’s head whips to the side, he stumbles a little but remains in place, his cheekbone feels like its caught on fire and there’s a spiteful coil of shame burning low in his belly.

Derek breathes in through his nose, deep but unsatisfying, his gaze inevitably getting drawn to Stiles throat; he’s too much of a coward to look at the dismay on Stiles’ face, how his mouth is twisted in anger and disappointment, his eyes wet and blinking hard.

“I’ve still got the money,” Derek continues, confiding in a soft voice. “You can have it, if you want to. You could take Scott-”

Stiles slaps him, hard.

Derek really should have been expecting it.

With enough force and enough vitriol that it takes Derek’s breath away. It stings, sharp and nettling, over the already bruising skin left from Stiles’ earlier punch.

“What are you, a bank?” Stiles snaps, and when Derek looks up, his bottom lip is trembling, brown eyes angry and lost all at the same time.

“I _work_ for a living, Derek, for me and my son. I don’t need your widower’s pension,” Stiles spits. “Because you feel _guilty_.”

Derek shakes his head uselessly, but he knows that arguing with Stiles now won’t do any good.

“I just thought you could get out of here if you wanted,” Derek says instead, hot blush working into his cheeks when he admits it.

He stares at the ground next to Stiles’ feet, fingers curling into his palms, vulnerability working into the lines of his body.

“I could come with you,” Derek explains, quiet and tentative. “I could look out for you.”

Stiles stares at him wordlessly, his expression shutting down to something unreadable.

But Derek doesn’t get to hear the answer; the elevator doors open with a seamless, almost soundless efficiency, flooding the hall with its bright light.

Within it, there’s a man, dressed in a tan suit a size too big and an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he says, as both Derek and Stiles stare at him. He fumbles back a step and peeks at the elevator panel. “Wrong floor.”

Stiles clears his throat, stepping into the elevator without another word. Derek follows him in.

The man in the tan suit presses the unlit button for the top floor before leaning back, letting Derek press the button for the underground parking lot.

Stiles stands behind the other two men, quickly wiping his hands over his eyes as the lift doors close.

They begin riding up towards the top floor when Derek notices the stranger in the lift eyeing him from the corner of his eye.

The stranger’s bumbling personality from only seconds before is all but vanished, leaving behind a man with a careful control over his actions and a dangerous glint in his eye.

A cursory glance down the man’s flank shows a Glock tucked into a holster beneath his blazer.

The tension seems to racket up as the hitman and Derek stare at each other, though Stiles stands behind them, entirely unaware.

Derek stares at the metallic elevator panel in front of him, muscle ticking in his jaw.

As slowly and carefully as he dares, he extends his right arm across Stiles’ body, hand curling around Stiles’ arm as he pushes him behind him.

Stiles goes easily, stumbling a little as Derek pushes him towards the corner, confusion marking his face.

But he doesn’t say anything, keeping his eyes steadily on Derek.

Derek turns, the backs of his fingers trailing across Stiles’ belly, tucking his hand in beneath the flap of his overshirt to curl around his waist.

Derek leans in and he doesn’t close his eyes until the very last moment, wanting to see the look on Stiles’ face, how his eyes drop to Derek’s lips and his mouth falls open in anticipation.

The fit of Derek’s mouth over Stiles’ is not as much good as much as it is _right_ , like the void inside of Derek has finally aligned itself.

Stiles’ mouth is soft and warm where it latches on to Derek’s bottom lip, and they might as well be alone for all Derek cares.

Derek crowds him into the wall, slowly deepening the kiss with the slide of his tongue alongside Stiles’, sucking lightly as the Stiles’ fingers come to rest on Derek’s hip.

Derek can’t help but press into Stiles, feeling the strength of his body beneath his clothes, chest against chest as he turns his head to fit better against him.

He skims his tongue across the inside of Stiles’ mouth, licking into him slowly and unhurriedly, turning his body to shield Stiles from the other man in the elevator.

Stiles kisses like he needs it, all sighing breaths, choked-off sounds made only for Derek and fingers tightening on Derek’s hip, his other hand coming up to cup Derek’s elbow as he opens his mouth and entices Derek.

He feels Stiles sigh against him, sated and long awaited, before he presses forward into Derek, his mouth claiming Derek’s for his own.

They hang suspended in air as they kiss for, what feels like, the longest time before they inevitably drift back to the solidity of the wall behind Stiles.

They don’t stop kissing until they reach the top floor, the elevator sliding to a stop with a soft bump; and even then their kiss lingers, slow and easy, and mouths chasing each other even as they pull away.

They look at one another in muted silence, Derek’s thumb tracing private patterns on Stiles’ shirt as Stiles licks his lips, eyes locked on to Derek’s.

Derek leans forward, nodding slightly, almost unnoticeably, but Stiles seems to understand whatever he means by it, even if Derek isn’t quite sure himself.

The elevator closes and with another gentle jolt it starts to descend.

Derek’s heart thuds once, his hand stills on Stiles’ hip and he clenches his jaw.

He turns his head to the other man in the lift; the hitman hadn’t stepped out on the top floor and now stands tense and ready; Derek’s glare is taken as silent authorisation and the man’s face twists, pulling his hand back to reach into his blazer.

Derek lunges at the man, barely noticing Stiles jolt in startled fear behind him, he grabs a fistful of the hitman’s hair and smashes his face into the elevator panel, making the whole thing shake on its line.

The momentum of Derek’s push has the man’s head rebounding off of the panel with a sickening thud, Derek wastes no time, shoving the man backwards so that his cranium cracks against the wall.

Stiles scrambles forward, eyes wide, plastering himself to the corner in an effort to evade the blows and fists of Derek and the hitman as they fight.

Derek places a hand on the top of the man’s head and another on his neck, trying to snap his spine. But it doesn’t work; the man has built up too much resistance as he pushes back.

He seems to be trying to reach his handgun in his holster, so Derek drives his knee into the man’s thigh, bruising muscle and bone in its force.

The man half-crumbles, crying out, and Derek takes the opportunity to shove him to the floor, forehead smashing against the handrail.

Stiles rushes across the small space of the elevator, breaths coming in wet and laboured as he carefully plants himself firmly behind Derek, gripping onto the sides of the lift in case his knees give out.

Derek prowls over the fallen hitman; the man looks up at Derek from the floor, gaze dazed and foreboding as droplets of blood fall in his eyes.

Derek kicks him full in face, not even hearing Stiles’ gasped, ‘ _fuck’,_ in the background.

The hitman’s head has barely finished rebounding off of the metal wall behind him before Derek stomps on his head, hearing bone crack and blood spurt.

He does it again.

His stamps are hard, methodical.

Over and over again, until the man’s head is nothing but bloody mush and oozing brain.

Derek stamps and stamps, unaware of the way that Stiles flinches in his skin with each resounding hit, watching with curdled fear.

Derek is unmindful of the way that Stiles watches him, frozen stiff, eyes wide and his mouth open as he struggles to gasp for breath.

Meanwhile, the elevator travels serenely down to the ground floor, quiet and careful, shaking slightly with each trample of Derek’s foot.

The man is surely dead by now, his head smashed into an indescribable pulp, but Derek’s too lost in it.

He wraps his hands around the handrails in order to give him better leverage and power to drive his foot into what little remains of the hitman’s head; over and over and over and over again.

Blood splashes all over his jacket; sweat breaks out over his skin and his face twists into undeniable rage as his foot continually careens into the pile of desecrated human flesh.

When Derek stops, finally satisfied with the fatal status of the hitman, awareness begins to seep into him.

It’s like the delayed reaction of a drug high, but in reverse; the feeling pulling him straight back down to reality with a roll of his stomach.

He hears Stiles first, his breathing strenuous and panicked. Dread floods Derek’s entire system as he stares down at the dead hitman and he realises exactly what he’s done.

The elevator reaches the ground floor with a lax bump, opening up into the car park.

Stiles stumbles out of it immediately, tripping over himself as he walks backwards away from the carnage that Derek made.

Derek turns towards him slowly, body thick and juddering; with blood all over him and sweat drenching over him, through his hair and over his face. He feels like a barbarian.

Derek looks at Stiles with pleading eyes, trying to explain and compensate and apologise all at once, but Stiles is stood frozen in the middle of the parking lot, hands twitching and breathing loud as his gaze trails from the mess of the hitman on the floor up to Derek.

He’s terrified, Derek realises, mouth trembling as he stares at him, neck working over the tightness of his throat.

Derek makes a move to advance, wanting nothing more than to comfort him, but Stiles jumps, flinching back away from him with a breathless sob.

It hits Derek like a punch in the stomach.

He hates himself, absolutely _hates_ himself for the look he puts on Stiles’ face, for the shock and the terror and the bone-crushing panic of his expression.

Stiles blinks, a tear marking a curved path over his face, catching on the corner of his open mouth.

But before the tear can fall, the elevator doors quietly hiss shut, and the silence it brings with it is blindingly final.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the elevator scene in the movie is both my favourite and least favourite scene of the entire movie. Favourite because of the kiss, like ohmygod, dudes. If you haven't watched the film, just youtube the elevator scene because woweee. 
> 
> But it's also my least favourite because y'know, _death_. 
> 
> One more chapter to go m'dears, see you soon! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I lied. There's going to be an extra chapter (because I, apparently, don't know when to stop). Haha, no, I just included a lot more detail than I was originally planning to so I decided to break things up instead :) 
> 
> Also, I've watched this movie like five times in the past week and I have only realised that Bryan Cranston is the Bryan Cranston from Breaking Bad. Yeah, I know. And I also realised that Oscar Isaac is the lead in 'Inside Llewyn Davis' which is super on my to-watch list :) 
> 
> Anyway, the show is back! Are we excited or _are_ excited. Those fireflies need to GTFO though, omg.

-

In those few seconds that Derek spends inside the stationary elevator, he can feel the material of his leather jacket moving with each of his breaths, sticking to his back through the thin Henley he has on.

He doesn’t hear anything from the other side of the door, but he has a feeling that it doesn't matter anyway; Stiles will surely have run away from the lot, and from Derek, by now.

Derek’s found that that’s the normal reaction ordinary people seem to take when confronted with his … more _immoral_ tendencies. They tend to flee the scene of violence and they tend to flee from him, he doesn't see why Stiles would be any different.

It’s never mattered before. But, of course, way back when this used to be a recurring factor in Derek’s life, he rarely ever committed offences like this in front of people that were likely to hand him in to the police. It was always lowlives, criminals, dealers et cetera. 

But people of Derek’s ilk aren’t Stiles, and they’re not people that Derek actually cares about. Which is why he won’t push the button to open those doors again, because should Stiles actually still be there, Derek doesn’t want to see what look of terror is present on his face.

No, Derek will have to deal with Stiles later. Now is the matter of keeping the man and his son safe.

So Derek reaches into his pocket, pulls out of his phone and in less than three minutes he makes three precise phone calls.

The first is to Bobby, arranging to meet at a park about twenty minutes away from Derek’s apartment block. The second and third calls are to contacts Derek hasn’t spoken to in years, though he’s retained memory of their shifting telephone contacts just in case.

Call number two is to the Alfaro twins, Aiden and Ethan; an expert body disposal unit that runs in the underground group Derek used to be affiliated with. Derek first met them when he started out in the business, he doesn’t like them much, but he can’t deny that they have been able to get him out of less than ideal situations.

The third phone call he makes is to a hacker, Danny, or so he calls himself. He asks him to somehow delete the entire video-taped existence of the deceased hitman entering the building and of Derek, and specifically _Stiles_ , being anywhere near him.

The hitman won’t be missed, Derek knows, nor his disappearance noted, not when the man worked for Deucalion. A man like that, Derek is well aware, doesn’t have a legal identity, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Derek gets out of the lift no sooner than that, when the cloying smell, like newly minted pennies, is haggard and rich in his nose, and the sight of the mashed up pulp of the hitman’s head makes his stomach roil.

He’s running out automatic once he leaves the confining and oppressive space of the elevator and, after pulling the emergency lever of the elevator to make sure that nobody will be getting into it, he approaches his car in the same manner: distant and more than a little out of it.

By the time that he gets to the meeting point with Bobby, Derek has a text message on his phone from the Alfaro twins assuring him of their arrival at Derek’s apartment building.

Even though he has the confirmation that this entire mess will be cleared up soon enough, he already has plans formulating in the back of his head, back-ups and plan Cs and Ds, because Derek still has an unfinished sort of energy just buzzing beneath his skin.

It’s because of Stiles, Derek knows, since lately everything has come back around to Stiles.

And Derek can’t stop thinking about the look on his face as he stumbled on to the parking lot, the way that his breathing hitched and stuttered, how he looked so damn terrified of him.

For the first time in his life, Derek not only has an acute awareness of the dangerous side of himself but is also disgusted by it; before, he’d accepted it as a part of himself. Before, it was something angry and vicious that manifested after he lost his family, sure, but it was also something that kept him alive and well to-do in the haunts of the city.

But now, the way that that part of himself makes him feel creeps under his skin, it lingers just beneath, itching on the underside in a way that he can’t get rid of, in a way that he can’t stop _thinking_ about.

By the time that Bobby rolls his car in to the parking space next to where Derek is leaning against the Camaro, Derek’s exhausted and frustrated and just plain angry.

His hands are twisted into fists in his pockets as he watches Bobby limp his way over.

“They came to my apartment, Bobby,” he says, eyeing the man with a hard-edged glare. “How did they know where I live?”

“I told you I was going to call Peter Hale,” Bobby replies, confused and a little wary, leaning heavily against the hood of his car, taking pressure off of his bad leg. “I wanted him to know that, that it wasn’t about-. That you’re not interested in the money, that you only did it for the boy.”

It takes, perhaps, a second or two for Bobby’s words to sink in; Bobby looks grave, devoid of all his usual enthusiastic mockery, genuinely thinking he’s done the right thing.

And without even realising it, Derek’s already crossed the small space between them, shoving Bobby against his car, hands wrapped around the older man’s throat and head.

Bobby is clearly not expecting it, he gasps and a small withered, “No, no!” tumbles past his lips.

“I just-,” he tries to say, pushing through the fear of Derek’s hands around his head.

“Why the _fuck_ did you have to tell them about Stiles?” Derek seethes, ivory hot anger coursing through him, teeth gritting together.

“Calm down,” Bobby orders breathlessly, hands coming up to gently tap at Derek’s elbows, a reminder for how much power he’s exerting on Bobby’s head.

“You told them about _Stiles_!” Derek yells in his face, dread beating fast and steady in his bloodstream as easily as if it were his heartbeat. Derek’s hands are shaking where they grip Bobby.

“I’m going to kill you,” Derek snarls, though it doesn’t alleviate the desperation in his face and his voice dying roughly at the base of his throat. “You _told_ them about Stiles.”

“Calm down, kid,” Bobby quietly ushers, hands wrapping around Derek’s forearms; like he’s talking to a child. “Just calm down. Calm down.”

“I should kill you,” Derek growls this time, he knows he won’t, because it’s _Bobby,_ but he's finding it sorely tempting. Frantically, he repeats, “You told them about Stiles. You-. You told-.”

Bobby’s hands are smoothing all over Derek, over his arms and his shoulders, his sides and his wrists, trying to calm him down.

“I just, I wanted him to know that as soon as you returned the money, that was the end of it,” Bobby reveals thickly, throat working quick and tight. “That’s all, I didn’t know.”

Derek’s shaking his head, he feels like a livewire, like somebody’s chained him up to an electrocuted fence, but Bobby’s gripping his forearms now, fingers digging into his skin, anchoring him to the present.

“How was I supposed to know? How was I supposed to know that?” Bobby shouts; his eyes are pleadingly boring into Derek’s and he visibly calms himself down before speaking again.

“Look,” he says, bringing up a placating hand up in the small space between he and Derek. “Let me just … let me just talk to Peter.”

Derek stares at him for a long second, before releasing his head with a vicious snarl. Derek storms off to the edge of the parking space, fingers running wild through his hair; he turns and looks at Bobby, who’s remained immobile where Derek left him.

“Why do you have to _fuck everything up_ , Bobby?” Derek bellows at him, feeling despondency and anxiety crackle and fizz as it crawls up the length of his throat.

“How was I supposed to know that everything led to them?” Bobby counters, hand gripping tightly to the wild strands of his hair.

Derek stares down at the man, anger all but frothing at his mouth. He breathes hard; scrubbing a hand over his stubble he bites down hard on his lip before he’s marching back up to Bobby, crowding him against the car, invading his personal space.

“They’re going to come looking for me,” Derek says, low and rough, fisting his hands in Bobby’s shirt. “And they’re going to come for you. Do you understand?”

“Oh god,” Bobby mumbles, slumping against the hood of his car, defeat marking every line of his body. “Oh my god.”

He seems to have given up on listening to Derek, making it twice as hard, as he twists his head this way and that, for Derek to procure eye contact with him.

“You’ve got to get out of here,” Derek tells him, pushing Bobby back against the car and batting away his errant hands as the man tries to move away. “And you’ve got to get out _now_.”

“I can’t-,” Bobby begins, but Derek isn’t having any of that.

“Listen to me, Bobby,” he orders, forcibly gripping the man’s shoulders and restraining him. “ _Listen_.”

He waits until Bobby’s eyes are piercing through his before he speaks, and his tone of voice does nothing but suggest the enormous gravity of the situation.

“Listen,” Derek repeats, voice hardening in the quietness. “You get out of here and you never fucking come back. Do you understand? You get Greenberg, you get out of town and you _never_ come back, Bobby.”

Derek knows, of course, what this means for _them_ , because Bobby’s the man who’s been more like family than anyone else in the past five years, but he tucks away that solitary piece of regret to mourn over some other time.

The look in Bobby’s face seems to reflect the same feeling.

“How did this happen?” Bobby asks uselessly dragging his hand through his hair, looking as hopeless as Derek feels. Bobby turns to Derek then, hands scrubbing over his mouth. “How? I-. What are you going to do?”

-

What Derek does, is drive.

Hours after the impromptu meeting with Bobby, Derek drives aimlessly around the streets he knows so well, along the long empty stretches of road illuminated by the glittering lights and the brooding movie stars on either side.

These streets used to bring him such comfort, the one place guaranteed to make him feel in control, with a car humming beneath him and the city opening up around him, and there'll never be anything else that’ll feel the same.

After too long deliberating, Derek makes a decision to drive back the way that he came from, through into Echo Park and back to his apartment building, back to Stiles.

He wouldn’t have gone to work, Derek knows, he would have ran straight to the stairs and straight to Scott.

The prospect of seeing Stiles again so soon after everything and seeing, once and for all _exactly_ what he thinks of Derek, makes him entirely too nervous.

Derek has taken down thugs and dismantled cartels with a single well-aimed shot, but the thought of seeing Stiles again makes his heart feels like it was removed all together, that in its place is nothing more than accumulated dread.

When he stands by the elevator in the parking lot, everything is still and quiet, not a thing out of place. The twins had sent him a confirmation message of a job done after all, but it settles something in Derek’s bones when he’s here to witness the fact that there are no screaming civilians tearing through the soundlessness or police cars painting the walls red and blue.

Yet, Derek hovers with his finger poised above the button, something stops him from opening those doors, from seeing the way the interior has been renovated to a slightly better than new polish; he thinks it may perhaps be to do with how the ghosts of Stiles’ fear lingers.

Derek’s running up the steps before he knows it, boots echoing on the stone as he takes it two at a time. He’s breathless by the time he gets up there, even though he puts himself through a more vigorous exercise regimen each morning than running up a few flights of steps would entail.

He walks past his apartment with his heart thundering in his chest and his breath catching in his throat.

But he hesitates for a moment, hand raised above Stiles’ apartment door, listening quietly.

The soft rap of Derek’s knuckles across the surface of the door seems to shatter through the silence, and all at once Derek seems to become too aware of everything around him; of how the air cards through the fine hairs at the nape of his neck and how the fabric of his shirt moves as he breathes, everything.

The door opens tentatively; just a crack, but it’s enough to see Stiles’ dark hair and a flash of his brown eyes.

Derek sees the recognition spark in Stiles’ eyes, then, _then_  stricken alarm replaces it and Stiles is trying to bang the door shut.

Only Derek’s seasoned reflexes allow for him to catch the door before Stiles shuts it, with a foot in the crack and his shoulder braced on the surface.

The pressure from the other side is phenomenally heavy, Stiles being stronger than he looks beneath the layers and layers of clothing that he wears, but Derek has a bigger bulk and a better, more-practiced posture, whereas he suspects that Stiles is just wildly pushing against the door and hoping for the best.

Inevitably, Derek’s strength wins out and he charges in to the apartment, kicking back with his foot to close the door behind him with a slam.

Stiles backs up, wary eyes focused on Derek as he works to put the distance of the living room between them.

They stare at each other for a long, silent second.

Stiles is in his pyjamas, soft-looking blue flannel trousers and a plain grey t-shirt over the top, though he looks anything but comfortable.

His face looks drawn and sallow, red tinged around his eyes. There’s also hard-edged anger in the line of his jaw, a continuous tick of a muscle just above the hinge of it and the curl of his fists which suggests that the hours they’ve spent apart have already hardened Stiles’ initial shock into deep resentment.

“What do you want?” he bites out, his eyes flickering over Derek, trying to find any sort of evidence of the occurrence in the elevator.

He won’t be able to, Derek knows, because he’d changed from his bloody clothes and boots into the reserved ones he keeps in the trunk of the Camaro and he’d washed his face with a bottle of water and some wet wipes on the shoulder of a deserted street.

“I just want to talk,” Derek says, he wants to move forward, move close to Stiles but he knows that he can’t.

Stiles scoffs, “Right.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek insists; and it sounds inane, but he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, hovering uselessly before they settle into fists at his side.

Stiles’ eyes flicker down to the movement and back up to Derek’s face.

“Says the man who forced his way into my apartment,” he retorts, taking a small step back, towards the darkened corridor, moving slowly like he hopes he Derek won’t notice.

“You wouldn’t talk to me,” Derek reasons. “If you had closed that door, Stiles, you would _never_ have looked at me again.”

“Well,” Stiles mutters, backing up slowly, slowly. “Anything to avoid hurting your delicate sensibilities.”

“Stop _moving_ ,” Derek says, though it comes out harsher than he intended. Stiles does so straight away, trepidation making his motions halt and his spine stiffen, Derek pales. “I’m sorry. I didn’t …”

Stiles stares at him, for so long that Derek can’t help but feel trapped in it, their gazes locked on to one other. Stiles looks like he’s trying to find the Derek that he knows, the one untainted by crime and murder.

He looks away eventually, settling his gaze just beyond Derek.

“What do you want?” Stiles repeats, neat and clipped, folding his arms over his chest.

“To explain.”

“Explain _what_ , Derek?” Stiles asks, sneering half-heartedly. “That you bashed a man’s head in? Because, _trust_ _me_ , I know that much. Or, what? Are you going to tell me that you liked it?”

“Stiles,” Derek warns, he knows that he's just trying to rile him up, but it doesn’t stop the sting from lashing out over his skin.

“Is this the part where you tell me you’re going to kill me too?” Stiles derides, eyes wet and wide, voice rising with each syllable. “That you _just_ can’t help yourself, huh, Derek? That you just _have_ to do it, to keep me quiet?”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek barks, sharp and loud. He regrets it immediately for the way that Stiles recoils. They’ve never even had an argument before this, and Derek doesn’t quite know what to do, can’t quite help the way he steps forward.

Of course, Stiles takes an immediate step back, hands flailing in the air as panic stretches across his features.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Derek repeats.

“Right,” Stiles says, voice thin and stretched. “Try again when you haven’t just murdered somebody in front of me.”

“I was trying to protect you,” Derek snaps, patience finally breaking.

“Well, great _fucking_ job, Derek.”

Derek flinches, because he knows it’s true and the feeling sits heavy and tight in his gut, sitting companionably with the knowledge that Stiles has an even greater of a target on his back now. Stiles rakes his fingers through his hair.

“No, totally,” he continues. “I feel A-OK with having you in my apartment right now.”

Derek’s at a loss for what to do, he’s never been in this position before, he’s never been in the place where he stands to lose somebody he cares about because of who he is and what he does.

Stiles watches him warily, like a caged tiger at a zoo.

“You think I won’t scream?” he tells Derek. “You think I won’t shout and holler? Because I will. If that’s what it takes to get you out of here then I’ll tell _anybody_ who listens what you did, and you’ll rot in jail.”

Derek can help but snort a laugh at that, though Stiles immediately takes it the wrong way, his expression warring between whether to be offended or terrified; the latter wins out.

“No,” Derek tries to placate, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from lifting up. “I just-. If, _if,_ Stiles, I were actually here to kill you, announcing that you were going to oust me to the authorities would probably not be the best way to ensure a one hundred percent survival rate.”

Stiles looks struck, like the thought had never even occurred to him and Derek takes the opportunity to move forward a tiny bit, not enough for Stiles to catch the movement and spook.

“You watch too many movies,” Derek tells him softly, mouth lilting in a hesitant smile.

And there, _right_ there is the look that Derek knows, the one that softens the sharpness of Stiles’ face and makes him look a little less stressed, a little more carefree.

But the look is gone, wiped out in one second flat with the inclusion of a new voice in the living room.

Scott.

He moves in from the shadows with a hand resting on the wall and trepidation marking his face.

“What’s going on?” he asks, looking from Stiles to Derek and back again.

Derek had been so focused on Stiles that he hadn’t taken the time to notice anything else, he has no way to gauge how long Scott had been stood there.

Stiles quickly wipes the residue of tears on his face, glancing over at Derek before he turns to Scott.

“Nothing,” he says, plastering on a smile. “Go back to bed, baby.”

The way that the three of them are positioned, a sort roughly equilateral triangle spanning the distance of the space, seems to inspire anxiety in Stiles.

From where Derek is stood he can, theoretically, get to Scott quicker than Stiles could. Not that Derek is planning to, or would even dream of hurting Scott, but Stiles doesn’t quite believe that just yet. Derek doesn’t blame him.

Scott sweeps a suspicious glance at Derek, blinking hard in his sleep-muddled state, before turning back to Stiles.

“Dad?” he scrubs a hand over the fine sleep lines on his cheek, automatically moving forward, moving closer to the two adults. “Why are you mad at Derek?”

“ _Scott_ ,” Stiles snaps, eyes on where Scott ventures closer to Derek, stress making his reprimand short and tart; Scott stills immediately. “I’m not going to tell you again; go back to your room.”

“Don’t yell at him,” Derek says quietly.

“ _You_ ,” Stiles returns hotly. “Shut up.”

Derek, of course, ignores him. He turns his eyes to Scott; standing stiff in the mouth of the corridor, lower lip trembling and fingers scrunching on the hem of his shirt.

“Listen to your dad,” Derek tells him, softening his voice, “Go back to bed, okay?”

Derek steps towards Scott, halfway to scooting down to Scott’s eye-level as he approaches; trying to soothe the kid.

It’s completely instinctive. Derek doesn’t even think it through, being so used to communicating with the stance of his body and so accustomed to the unconscious way that he manoeuvres his limbs, that he completely fails to take into account the situation they’re in.

Stiles moves at once, quick and unnerved, positioning himself in between his son and Derek, pushing Scott behind his leg.

“Don’t you dare,” he grinds out, lifting hand to stop Derek, eyes hard and near blazing with vehemence.

Stiles may still be scared of him, he may have only just become aware of the true extent of danger that Derek presents, but there’s absolutely no denying that Stiles'll take Derek on with everything he has in order to protect Scott.

Derek freezes, eyes on the anger in the tightness of Stiles’ mouth, the hard lines of his body and the warning tone of his voice as he repeats, quieter, “Don’t you _dare_.”

So Derek stops, because of course he does; he stands straighter and he takes a step back, trying to instil compliance into the way that he moves.

“Sorry,” Derek mumbles, voice brittle and quiet.

Stiles watches him for a long second, only glancing down as Scott begins to tug on his father’s pyjama pants.

It’s clear that, while Stiles doesn’t view Derek as some kind of murderous threat to himself anymore, he sure as hell doesn’t trust him with his son.

After a second of deliberation, Stiles turns and picks Scott up.

The kid moulds to his father’s hold at once, wrapping his legs around Stiles’ waist, throwing his arms around his neck and hooking his chin over Stiles’ shoulder to wave a hesitant goodbye to Derek as his father carries him to his room.

With the quick snick of the door of Scott’s bedroom closing, Derek sinks into the cushions of the armchair, dropping his head into his hands as he tries to figure out what to do next.

-

An hour and a half later, Stiles is still in Scott’s room; long enough to coax Scott back to sleep, Derek is sure, but it’s more than that.

For countless minutes of listening only to his breathing and the quiet, settling noises of the apartment he’d become so used to, Derek doesn’t think Stiles will be coming out any more.

Derek decides to give Stiles another hour, he’ll wait one more hour and if Stiles doesn’t show up then … then, _nothing_. It’s his decision, and Derek isn’t about to force more terror into their lives than he already has in the past twenty-four hours. 

Forty long minutes after that, long after Derek’s eyes have dried with boredom and a sense of regret has pooled in his belly, relief pours through him as he hears the hesitant sound of Scott’s door opening.

Derek stands up immediately, trying to look as non-threatening as he possibly can. And as Stiles emerges from the shadows slowly, with careful steps and a tired face, Derek carefully raises his hands up by his chest in an appeal.

“Tell me to leave,” he offers, quiet. “And I’ll go; no matter what. You’ll never have to see me again.”

The enormity of the silence that hangs around and between them seems to crush and condense in Derek’s lungs; never before has he felt so utterly exposed beneath a person’s single shrewd glance.

The moment stretches on for far too long, and Derek’s heart is beating fast and rigid in his chest. He can tell that Stiles is actually considering it, telling Derek to get out with not much more than a dismissive gesture, so Derek tries his best not to think about how easy it would be for Stiles to order him to leave, to be over and done with the mess that Derek’s made of his life.

But there must be something in Derek’s eyes, desperation or despondence or _something_ , because Stiles softens; just a little, hardly a twitch of a thing, but it’s more than enough for now.

Stiles acquiesces with a small, tight nod and Derek tentatively drops his hands.

He doesn’t know where to begin, and instead settles for staring at Stiles with pleading eyes as he organises his thoughts.

It doesn’t matter though, because as soon as Derek opens his mouth to speak, as soon as that uncertain first syllable leaves his lips on an exhaling breath, Stiles is abruptly turning around and marching towards the kitchen.

The suddenness of the interruption has Derek closing his mouth with a snap, eyes following the trajectory that Stiles cuts through the living room.

He trails after him, footsteps seeming too heavy within his boots in light of the softly padded noises Stiles’ bare feet make on the tile.

In the kitchen, Stiles settles against the far counter, arms crossed tight over his chest.

Derek doesn’t miss that Stiles positions himself directly next to the knife block, but he doesn’t mention it either.

Stiles blinks, gaze passive and disenchanted, “Explain.”

Derek doesn’t know whether he means explain the entire thing from the beginning or just the happenstance in the elevator earlier, but Stiles doesn’t look like he has a whole lot of patience, and Derek doesn’t particularly want to test him on that.

“The job,” Derek says, halting apprehensively at the feeling of Stiles’ eyes boring into him; so he tries to avoid his gaze as much as he can. “The job that I did for Raf, it-”

“ _Rafael._ ” 

“Rafael,” Derek concedes, nodding solemnly. “I don’t think he and I were meant to make it out.”

Derek very nearly didn’t, but he wasn’t about to reveal the real severity of the stakes to Stiles _now_.

Blake may have been an unfortunate accident, she might have just not gotten out in time, or they were planning on killing her in the long run anyway; Derek doesn’t know, doesn’t particularly care either.

“He was in debt to, to some big guys he should have never crossed paths with,” Derek continues, settling his gaze on Stiles’ stomach. “He was an easy scapegoat, and I chose to help him, I was just a loose end, so-,” Derek pauses, and he licks his lips, shrugs a little uselessly. “I guess it was no hardship to kill me too.”

Stiles has shifted his gaze towards one of the kitchen cabinets, fingers pressed to his mouth as tears begin to gather in the corners of his eyes.

“They sent a hitman today,” Derek tells Stiles, cautiously approaching him, wanting nothing more than to comfort. “I think he was only meant to scope me out, see what I was about, but then he saw you. He saw _us_.”

He stops in front of Stiles, who turns to silently watch Derek, he has caution in his eyes but he doesn’t move otherwise.

“He would have come back for you,” Derek notes quietly. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

There’s a tense second, and Stiles is shaking within his skin, wet eyes darting back and forth as he tries to process Derek’s words.

“Just-. Just tell me one thing,” Stiles eventually asks, voice cracking and teeth biting into his bottom lip as he looks at Derek. “How did he talk you into it?”

“He didn’t,” Derek says, holding Stiles’ gaze even though it kills him to see the anguish in it. “I offered.”

“You offered.”

“I’ve been doing this my whole life,” Derek says. “It’s what I do.”

Stiles stares at him. Seemingly not breathing for a long drawn out second; he stares and he stares and he stares.

Then, he inhales, deep and shaky.

“Of course you have,” Stiles mutters, dragging a harsh hand over his mouth. He rakes his fingers through his hair, tufts of it springing up between his fingers from where he grips tight, eyes shut and head bowed. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, moving closer still, hesitantly wrapping his hands around Stiles’ elbows, dragging his palms up the length of Stiles’ arms to settle over the shape of his shoulders. “You weren’t ever supposed to get caught up in all of this.”

“And yet,” Stiles bites out, pushing ineffectively at the unmoving mass of Derek’s chest, glaring at him. “And yet, you held my hand, Derek. And you _kissed_ me and you looked at me like-.”

Stiles breaks off, trapping his tongue between his teeth as he tries to breathe.

“Like?” Derek prompts gently.

“Like _that_ ,” Stiles says, gaze hopping all over Derek’s face. Somehow, his hands have twisted into the material of Derek’s shirt, pulling him closer more than he is pushing him away. “Like how you’re looking at me right now.”

Derek leans forward, pushing his forehead against Stiles', they breathe like that for a second, chest against chest, connected along the length of their bodies.

“I’m leaving,” Derek tells Stiles, hands coming up to cup his jaw. “I want you to come with me.”

Stiles is already shaking his head, scoffing lightly like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“You and Scott,” Derek pleads. Stiles’ cheeks are hot beneath his palms and Derek rubs the pad of his thumbs over the light stubble Stiles has accumulated over the day. "Stiles, please." 

“You’re crazy,” Stiles tells him, and they’re so close they can feel each other’s inhalations wash over them. “I don’t even know you.”

“You do. Yes, you do,” Derek implores. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Talk like _what_ , Derek?” Stiles rebukes, pulling away from Derek. He takes his face from the cradle of Derek’s hands and shuffles back into the counter a little more. “I _don’t_ know you. I didn’t until today, apparently. And-.”

Stiles stops, swallows tightly and lowers his panicked voice, “I saw you kill a man in front of me, Derek.”

“He was going to hurt you,” Derek repeats uselessly, hating the brittle, hoarse quality to his voice. “He was going to hurt Scott.” 

“But you didn’t _stop_ ,” Stiles contests, voice finally breaking on a dry sob. “ _Shit_ , Derek, you didn’t stop. You didn’t-”

Derek crushes Stiles to him, hands draping over his shoulder blades and around his ribs as Stiles wets Derek’s t-shirt with wet, panting gasps of air.

Stiles buries his face in Derek’s shoulder, the material muffling the wrangled breaths tumbling from his throat. Derek can do nothing but hold him up as the stress of the day finally catches up him.

“I don’t trust you,” Stiles says, but his body is still pushed up against Derek, hands fisted in his shirt like he’ll fall if Derek lets him go. “I don’t trust you not to lose it one day, with me or with Scott.”

The end up on the kitchen floor like that, with Stiles sprawled over Derek’s body, clutching to him as Derek fiercely whispers, _‘never, never, never’_ into his hair over and again.

Stiles only turns away from Derek’s searching gaze, hiding his face in the crook of Derek’s neck as he waits for his panic to subside.

Later, Stiles says, “I don’t want my son to grow up like that.”

His body is still trembling with the aftereffects of crying, but his legs tangled with Derek as they lean against the cupboards lining the floor, arm thrown over Derek’s chest, head pillowed on Derek’s shoulder, “Around what you do.”

“I’m getting out,” Derek promises, squeezing Stiles tighter, closer. “Once I straighten out this thing, I’m getting out for good. We’ll go someplace, anywhere you want.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Stiles says, pulling out of Derek’s grasp. Running a tired hand over his face, scratching through his hair.

“Why not?”

Stiles stops and looks at him.

“Because people like you never get out.”

“I will,” Derek assures, reaching out a hand to cup Stiles’ cheek. “For you, I will.”

They stay like that for a long while, just looking at each other; long until Stiles’ stops trembling and instead begins to move his body with a decisive, suggestive purpose.

He drops his gaze to Derek’s lips for a long minute before he sways in, lips fitting neatly over Derek’s mouth, catching him mid-gasp.

There’s nothing sweet or chaste about the kiss. It’s coarse and jagged and blinding in its surprise. Derek hadn’t even thought about having this, not tonight in any case.

He was more concerned with getting Stiles and Scott safe, to talk it out maybe, convince him to get out of the city with him. But _this_ , this is so much more than he could ever hope for.

It’s Stiles licking into Derek’s mouth like he owns it, a possessive hand curling over the tautness of Derek’s throat and tipping his head back further onto Stiles shoulder as the man leans over him.

It’s anger skirting the edges of lust, and Derek can’t do much more than take whatever Stiles is giving him.

It’s good, it’s amazingly good, but Derek’s position isn’t particularly comfortable. He can’t help but sigh in gratification as Stiles moves, sliding over Derek’s lap like there’s no place else he’d rather be.

There’s something frantic about Stiles’ kisses, like he has a sheet of extraneous energy sitting just beneath his skin. He pulls Derek’s shirt over his head without a second thought, leaving Derek to shake the material off of his own wrist whilst Stiles drapes himself all over him.

He stills when he catches sight of the bandage wound around his arm, stark white against the tan of Derek’s skin, a plethora of dark pinks and reds from where the blood has seeped through.

Stiles’ fingers skirt over the frayed edges of the bandage, Derek had all but forgotten about it, a stray twinge in his arm that he’d trained himself to ignore. But Stiles’ touch is careful, concerned, fitting his palm carefully over the length of it.

His eyes slide to Derek and he studies him for a lingering moment, Derek’s trying to perceive that sharp shrewd gaze when an explosive, blistering pain blazes up his arm. Stiles’ fingers have tightened around Derek’s wound, creating a relentless pulse of frigid pain blooming yellows and reds behind Derek’s eyelids.

He jumps with the pain, from the startling ache of it, and Stiles winces. He looks fatalistic, even as he curls away from Derek, hand still gripping the bandage, and Derek _knows_ that look, it’s the look of someone readying to be hit.

“Is this some kind of test?” Derek gasps out, using his other hand to clamp down on the back of Stiles’ neck, bringing him closer. “Huh? You wanted me to lash out, Stiles? Hit you and prove you right?”

Derek can feel Stiles’ quick breaths over his mouth, and the acerbic tone of Stiles’ next remark cuts deep.

He curls his lip, eyes locked with Derek, “You still might.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Derek promises. “There's no way I’m going to hurt you.”

Stiles doesn’t says anything, but the set of his jaw answers Derek anyway. He seals his mouth over Derek’s, harsh and unrelenting.

When Stiles begins to roll his hips, it’s all noise from there; breathless grunts, roughly gasped moans and furious pleasure.

Derek does his best to thrust upwards, but Stiles’ weight on his lap is grounding and he can’t make himself care to do anything else but feel the heat of Stiles’ hands trail down his front.

On their journey back up, Stiles’ fingertips dip into the crevices of Derek’s abs, scratching lightly over the faint dusting of hair on his chest before they move up, sinking into Derek’s dark hair.

Stiles tightens his fingers, pulling Derek’s head back taut to expose the line of his throat.

It startles a deep moan out Derek; he sighs it out, stretched and sated, before his voice melts into a series of half-noises and nonsense pleasure as Stiles laves his mouth over his throat.

Stiles sinks his teeth into Derek’s neck, not near hard enough to bruise, but just enough to have thin lines of red trailing after his mouth. His hands are tight in Derek’s hair, holding him in place as he presses biting open mouthed kisses that leave Derek’s chest heaving and his pulse shattering in his veins.

Stiles pulls the skin between his teeth, electric bluntness giving way for the warm, gentle suction of Stiles’ mouth, his lips rubbing over Derek’s stubble until they’ve gone numb.

By the time that Stiles gets to Derek’s lips, after raking over his collarbones and kissing a deft line to his chin, Derek’s not doing much more than panting against Stiles' mouth, punch-drunk on being touched.

Stiles kisses him hard, with mouths open wide and tongues searching deep. The grip he has in Derek’s hair keeping them crushed together and Derek finds purchase on the smooth bare skin of Stiles’ back beneath his t-shirt.

When he takes Stiles’ shirt off, Derek has to pause, pulling Stiles into him in a hug that seems out place amongst the frenzy of them. But he has to, he _has_ to pull Stiles in, wrap his arms around him and feel his warmth.

Stiles sinks into it, pressing their chests together, arms thrown over Derek’s shoulder and he sighs, pressing sloppy kisses to the soft ridges of Derek’s throat.

It’s a long while before he pushes away again.

“Lie down,” he tells Derek, impatient hands pushing at his chest.

He lifts his weight off of Derek’s lap, allowing him to move away from the cupboard and stretch out on the kitchen floor.

The tile is cold against Derek's heated back, and he arches up, trying to keep the contact minimal. He curves right up into the heat of Stiles’ palms, where they smooth over Derek’s flank, dark eyes drinking in every inch of him.

But then Stiles is using the height advantage he has leaning over Derek to push him down, hands braced on his chest as he begins to roll his hips.

Derek can feel the hard line of Stiles’ cock pushing through the thin material of his pyjama pants, breath hard and heady and he drags himself over the bulge in Derek’s jeans.

It’s more pleasurable for Stiles than it is for Derek though, since Derek’s jeans are tightly constricting and his half-hard cock is digging in painfully into the metallic teeth of the zipper.

But at the same time it’s not _unpleasant_ for Derek, because he likes this. He likes watching the delicate fall of Stiles’ red lips as he gasps, the way that the amber of his eyes has grown dark and hazy; he likes the way Stiles _moves_ above him, serpentine and skilful.

And the noises that Stiles makes, the half-bared growls and the saturated moans, makes Derek gasp right along with him.

It’s not what Derek had envisioned for their first time, way back when he thought that they would _have_ a first time, but he’ll take what he can get.

He’ll take the way that Stiles leans his weight on to Derek’s chest, elbows locked and teeth gritting together as his throat works over his bitten-off inhalations, and the way that pleasure flitters over him in waves of heat, in tremors that don’t leave his skin.

The friction of Stiles above Derek is more bad than good for him, but he lets him have this, he lets Stiles work out the ache in his bones while Derek skims the palms of his hands over Stiles’ back. He watches covetously as Stiles leans into it, golden eyes finding Derek’s gaze, locking and never straying.

Stiles’ movements become tighter, more frantic as he approaches his release, mouth hanging slack and red-bitten as Derek guides him through it. He grinds down on Derek, hard and harder, fingers digging into the muscle of Derek’s chest, though Derek doesn’t even notice, more preoccupied with his large palms spreading over Stiles’ ass, learning the ways it fills out the material of the pyjamas with each roll of his hips.

Stiles comes with his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut, a stammered breath on his lips and his hips working fast over Derek, rolling himself through his orgasm.

The release, however, is over as quickly as it is satisfying.

It fades out in a rush, leaving Stiles’ head to drop forward and his shoulders to slump, emptying him of vigour.

He stretches the fingers on Derek’s chest slowly, blinking lethargically, chest heaving as he reels back from his unsettled orgasm. Derek doesn’t even think Stiles notices how Derek’s hands are smoothing soothingly over his thighs as he’s bracing himself over Derek, dizzy, disconcerted and unmoored.

Derek sits up carefully, touching his fingertips to Stiles’ cheek, cradling and tilting his head so Derek can gently kiss his plump, slack lips.

He kisses once, twice; three times before Stiles has the sense of mind of kiss back. And even when he does, the action is slow and amateurish, capturing Derek’s lips between tiny presses of his own.

It’s so gentle that it aches deep within Derek, it has him opening his eyes when his and Stiles’ lips part, remaining close enough to share millimetres of air between them, watching him closely.

Stiles’ eyelashes are a dark shadow above his cheekbones, soft-looking and youthful, a clear contrast between that and the sharp contours of his face.

Stiles looks older than his years, even now in this state of supposed afterglow, but it’s not in his physical features, in the gentleness of his mouth or the rugged rouge of his cheeks, it’s more to do with the aura that Stiles carries.

The stress of everything manifests in a burden that deepens the frown on Stiles’ face, makes his breathing laboured and hard.

They wrap their arms around each other, skin gliding on skin as they fit together almost seamlessly. Stiles rests his temple on the curve of Derek’s shoulder, and Derek leans his cheek on Stiles’, inhaling deep and steady until Stiles’ chest stutters into a calmer rhythm of breathing.

Derek can feel Stiles’ heart pounding against his chest and he pulls him in closer still.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs into Stiles’ ear, fingers combing through the damp mass of the man’s hair. “Just for tonight; let me take care of you.”

Stiles nods tiredly against Derek’s shoulder, sighing quietly as Derek presses a lingering kiss to his temple.

And then Derek is getting them both to their feet, picking up their discarded shirts on the way before curling an arm around Stiles’ trim waist, leading them out of the kitchen and towards the bedroom. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALAS! Smut! :) There'll be a little bit more in the beginning of the next chapter but then it's ALL action.  
> That's right, y'all better prepare yourselves!  
> See you soon!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for why this is so late! The next (final!) chapter will be up in like, ten minutes!  
> Some things to note, Deucalion is not blind and Peter Hale is not related to Derek!

-

Their entrance to the bedroom is quiet; Derek closes the door behind them with a quiet click and the darkness of the night surrounds them, engulfing them.

Derek turns the overhead light on and, when he turns around, Stiles is standing in front of his bed. His cheeks are still red and he’s palming the back of his neck with his hand.  

His eyes are fixed anywhere but at Derek, Derek can hear his breathing from where he’s stood so he pads over to him, quick and quiet, sliding his fingers into Stiles’ hair, tangling in the silk-soft strands of it before he tips his head to the side, mouth sliding over his easily.

Derek kisses him deep and slow, tongue sliding into the wet, open heat of Stiles mouth. Bodies pressed tight together as he nips gently at the corner of Stiles’ lip, sucking at his tongue until Stiles is sighing out a moan, softening under Derek’s touch, long fingers settling at the bare skin of Derek’s waist, spine curving.

They’re on the bed before Derek knows it, with Stiles’ neck a long sinuous curve against the pillow beneath him as Derek presses his lips to it, hands smoothing over Stiles’ sides where he lays under Derek.

Derek kisses a path up to Stiles’ mouth, tracing the soft ridges of his trachea where it rises against his skin, rubbing his lips over the dark stubble of Stiles’ chin, teasing Stiles’ mouth open with the slightest flick of his tongue. He kisses him for so long that they both lose track of time, aware only of each other’s beating hearts and the semblance of their breathing.

Derek pulls back though, hooking his fingers on the band of Stiles’ pants and dragging them off of his legs; he scrunches the material in his fist and uses it to do a cursory clean-up of Stiles’ groin.

He leans back on his haunches to throw the material to the floor, but then Stiles is sitting up after him, pressing quick opened mouth kisses on the taught skin of Derek’s belly.

His hands are spanning the entire length of Derek’s sides, hot palms and long fingers caressing skin that hasn’t been touched, not like this, not in _years_.

Stiles looks up at Derek, golden eyes dark in anticipation, mouth slaving hot breaths over Derek’s skin, bottom lip dragging carelessly over the expanse as Stiles gets lost in Derek’s gaze. 

The moment lasts too long and not enough, Derek is kneeling over Stiles’ lap and Stiles blinks, and then his tongue is flicking out to lave at Derek’s nipple, warm mouth settled over the tight bud as his hands lower to undo the buckle of Derek’s belt. Stiles’ mouth suckles at the nipple with long, slow pulls that leave Derek sighing heavily, hand coming to rest on the back of Stiles’ head. Stiles pulls off from his nipple, leaving his lips a spit-slick pink that Derek just has to taste.

Stiles’ hand rests on Derek’s waist as the other pulls Derek’s belt from its loops, fingertips skimming over the tight definition of Derek’s belly.

Derek matches Stiles’ soft groan with his own, sighing into his mouth as soon as Stiles wraps his fist around Derek’s length. Stiles carefully pulls him out of his briefs; wrist curling expertly as he tentatively fists Derek's entire length.

Derek still has his hands cupped around Stiles’ jaw, tongue sweeping against Stiles’, their mouths melding together in a way that lights Derek up to the tips of his toes.

When Stiles pulls away, he wastes no time in bending down to take Derek’s cock in his mouth.

Derek doesn’t know what to do, mouth falling silently open as Stiles sinks down on him. From his vantage point, Derek can see only the full head of Stiles’ hair dipping long and slow between his legs, so he runs his fingers over Stiles’ scalp, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck.

Stiles has a hand wrapped around the base of Derek’s cock, meeting the distance with his lips, the tender heat of his mouth cascading over the length of Derek’s cock in pulls that are intoxicating, that make his hips buck and his throat close around strained groans.

Derek is selfish, he’d never deny that, and he _knows_ that this’ll be the last time he has Stiles; the last time he’ll have Stiles’ long fingers spanning over his skin, the last time those hot pink lips stretched out over him, sucking him with slow decadent rolls of his tongue.

So he pulls Stiles off of him, gives the man barely a second’s remiss before he's catching his lips in a kiss. Derek steals the breath right out of Stiles’ mouth, but Stiles kisses back just as passionately, just as _desperately_ , fingers grappling on skin, teeth catching on lips, sighs falling from mouths even as they tip backwards on to the bed.

But, Derek, Derek has something to _prove_. He wants to show, with this last act between them, that he’s not the person that Stiles thinks he is. That he can love, love _so_ good that it’ll break them both apart, tear them open with light and laughter and _life_ , to make room for each other.

Though Derek doesn’t know how to say it, he’s never developed the kind of faculties that seem to come so easily to others when it comes to real relationships, relationships that extend past one-night fucks in forgettable hotel rooms and the backs of crowded bars.

He shows it to Stiles, shows that he can love him gently, like he deserves, shows him that the violent sides of Derek, those virulent, ugly sides, are not for him, _never_ for him.

Derek will roll into him slowly tonight, moving only an inch back and forth when he’s buried inside of Stiles, moving only enough to create friction. But he’ll stay fully sheathed inside of him, until he’s matching Derek breath for breath, until their eyes are wet and bright and locked on to each other.

Derek will show him, he’ll wrap himself around Stiles ever so carefully, and he’ll tell him with his body and his mouth, in his own little way, that Derek can love him like he needs.

Now, Derek’s lips trail over the hard line of Stiles’ jaw, rubbing himself numb on the stubble, and he’s pressing feather-light kisses to Stiles’ throat while to other man stretches, arm extended over the bed, fingertips grasping at the edge of the drawer of the bedside table, fumbling until he can slide it open.

Derek doesn’t miss a beat; bracing himself over Stiles with one forearm, he leans over to search for the lube. The one he finds, however, is not what he’s expecting. It’s three quarters of the way empty, for one, and the plastic label is curling on one of the rounded corners.

The implication of it hits Derek hard, even though it’s stupidly obvious now that he should have been expecting it, because Raf was Stiles’ _husband_ and Stiles didn’t owe Derek anything, especially not his celibacy.

Derek can feel the weight of Stiles’ gaze on him, but he’s stuck frozen over him, the bottle in his hand feeling cold and too weightless to be comfortable.

Stiles’ fingers stop from where they’ve been absently rubbing over the hair on Derek’s forearm, hand falling away completely to leave Derek feeling adrift.

His voice, when he speaks, is quiet, “There’s another one in the bottom drawer.”

Derek finds it hidden away behind papers and notebooks, in the furthest corner of the drawer. This bottle is smaller than the previous, a completely different label too, unopened and promising; Derek’s gaze finds Stiles’, rich amber in colour and completely unapologetic in expression.

Derek stretches out beside Stiles, he slides an arm beneath Stiles’ neck whilst the other spreads over the expanse of Stiles’ stomach, and leans in to kiss him.

He opens him up gently, with no rush, lube-coated fingers pumping in and out of Stiles, stretching him, with an unaffected hunger, the pace of it being almost as lazy as the loose kisses they exchange between themselves.

Derek kisses a path down Stiles’ stomach, takes his cock in his mouth as three fingers spread inside of Stiles. He works over him slowly, mouth leaving wet trails of spit and hot breath on Stiles cock as he does so, it’s been a long time since Derek’s done this, but he wants to make it good for Stiles.

Stiles tips his head back, lungs expanding and contracting heavily as he arches off the bed, fucking up into Derek’s mouth and rolling back down on to his fingers, over and again in the same heady rhythm.

Sliding into Stiles is a testament to Derek’s patience, the heat of him proving almost too tempting, and he wants nothing more than to shove forward, to bury himself completely. But Stiles’ mouth is thinned out as he concentrates, one hand spread on Derek’s hip to keep him still, and the other, slick in lube holds on to Derek’s dick as he guides him in.

Stiles’ legs are hooked around Derek’s thighs, his forehead resting on the curve of Derek’s shoulder, looking down at where he stretches around Derek.

Derek fucks into him slowly, inch by agonizing inch, muttering nonsense to Stiles. He bottoms out with a long sigh, Stiles’ fingers digging into Derek’s skin. Derek feels dizzy, surrounded by Stiles, the way that he smells and the way he moves, Derek's arms are trembling when he lowers himself to press his forehead to Stiles.

He looks down at where Stiles is gazing up at him; sweat soaked and wide-eyed, hands roving over Derek’s skin to settle at either side of his spine.

Derek thinks, “ _I love you,_ ” and it doesn’t seem strange, it makes heat and affection surge out of that null void inside of him that he’s been careful to ignore for years.

Beneath him, Stiles is silent, complete and utterly still as he watches Derek, thumbs tracing indiscernible patterns on Derek’s back.

Derek presses a delicate kiss on his mouth, turns to place another on his cheek, the shell of his ear, his temple, “Breathe, Stiles.”

-

The first time Derek wakes up, the sun has just about risen, casting translucent rays of yellow and gold through the windows they’d forgotten to pull the curtains over.

Derek moves to check the time on the other side of Stiles, when he jostles the man awake.

Stiles cracks one eye open, grimacing against the harsh brightness of the light. He scowls sleepily at Derek, before promptly grabbing Derek’s arm and draping it over his face.

He wraps his arm over Derek’s waist and shuffles closer, sliding a leg between Derek’s, their coarse leg hair dragging against each other in lazy pleasure.

Derek stills, because it’s evident that Stiles is still half-asleep, that he doesn’t remember that he’s supposed to be angry with Derek or, worse yet, _afraid_ of him.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, Derek tentatively whispers, “Stiles?”

He gets a sleepy hum in response, and when Derek doesn’t say anything further, Stiles’ head pokes out from beneath Derek’s arm, where he’d been taking sanctuary from the glare of the sun.

His hair is lush and messy, his skin pale and sleep-soft, his mouth pink and dry as he looks at Derek, groggily mumbling, “Yeah? What's wrong?”

Instead of saying anything at all, Derek leans down and kisses him. He tries not to imagine what it would be like to have this every morning, a sleep-rough Stiles returning his kisses with sluggish nips and pecks, but it proves to be damn near impossible when Derek can feel Stiles smile against his mouth, kissing him back with the soft pucker of his lips.

“Nothing,” Derek whispers eventually, kissing the corner of Stiles’ mouth, pulling him closer still. “Go back to sleep.”

-

The second time that Derek wakes up, it’s barely a few hours since he’s kissed Stiles.

They’re still wrapped up in each other, Derek’s cheek pressed against Stiles’ chest, a loose fist tucked into the small of Stiles’ back, Stiles’ chin resting on the crown of Derek’s hair.

Stiles is already awake, so it seems, hand absently tracing the tattoo on Derek’s back, slow and steady over the dark lines of the triskele.

He stops once he realises that Derek is awake, hands falling away to nothing. But Derek is already surging forward, capturing kiss after kiss after kiss on the soft skin of Stiles’ chest, and reddening it with the scratch of his stubble. His hands roam over the long expanse of Stiles’ back, over the smooth bumps of his spine, to the curve of his ass.

There are fingers running through Derek’s hair, long and bony and _all_ Stiles, causing shivers to tremble over Derek’s skin.

But the illusion of peace, of _love_ , is shattered when Stiles tugs on Derek’s hair, light and unassuming.

“You should go,” he says.

Derek freezes, lips pressed to the curve of Stiles’ collarbone. He pulls back, staring at Stiles until the other man gathers enough courage within himself to look back.

“I don’t want you here,” Stiles continues, in that same low voice, he sounds tired and rough. “And I don’t want to see you again.”

Derek knows he’s lying, he can see it in Stiles’ gaze, but he promised. He promised Stiles and he can’t go back now.

He does an entirely abysmal job at hiding his disappointment, but he drops his eyes from Stiles’, nodding slowly before he untangles himself from the other man and slips out of the bed.

Stiles sits up against the headboard, wrapping the sheets around his waist; he doesn’t look at Derek, he settles his gaze on to where the material of the bed sheets are bunched up between his fists. He sniffs once and, leaning back, he waits for Derek to leave.

Derek dresses quickly, feeling uncomfortable in the staunch silence of the room, discomfited by the distance between he and Stiles when not a few minutes ago they were wrapped up in each other.

“Just because,” Stiles falters, Derek pauses, before turning to look at him, but Stiles is staring at his hands. “Just because you know how to make love to me, it doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re capable of.”

Derek nods in silent understanding, though Stiles is refusing to look at him. He finishes pulling his shirt down over his stomach and he stands there for a moment or two, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides before he decides to bite the bullet.

Derek strides across to Stiles, takes one glance at the surprise on Stiles’ face before he ducks down for one last kiss.

Truthfully, he expects Stiles to turn his head, to punch him in the face or push him away.

But instead, Stiles kisses him heartily, leaning into the hand Derek cups around his jaw, mouth hot and gentle against Derek’s.

Stiles’ eyes are still closed when Derek presses one last chaste kiss on his lips; he turns around and walks out of the bedroom.

Closing the door behind him feels final, and Derek is intensely aware of the utter silence of the hallway of the apartment. It’s still pretty early, but the brightness of the sun outside manifests in grey, dull shadows that follow Derek as he heads further into the apartment.

It’s the last time he’ll ever be here, he knows. He knows it with a settled acceptance that sits solid and dense in the pit of his stomach. Derek hesitates only briefly outside of Scott’s door, opens it quietly and pads to where Scott is sprawled out beneath his sheets.

Scott’s on his back, a hand curled into a loose fist by his head and his mouth open. Derek crouches by the bed and gently shakes him awake with a hand on his shoulder.

Scott awakens with bleary eyes and a tired yawn; Derek offers him a small smile.

“Hey,” Derek begins, lowering his voice into a whisper. “I’m gonna head out now.”

Scott nods, rubbing his knuckles into the socket of his eye, he looks like he’s about to fall asleep any second now, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Derek thinks about lying to him, telling him that of course he’ll see him tomorrow, because the thought of cutting through Scott’s lazy sleepiness seems too much, even for Derek.

But, Derek doesn’t want Scott’s last memory of him to be a lie, so he sighs deeply, shaking his head.

“I have to go somewhere,” Derek tells him, just barely resisting curling his palm over Scott’s dark unruly curls. “And-. And I don’t think I can come back.”

Scott looks confused through a haze of sleep, like he’s trying to make sense of Derek’s words with all his might.

Derek shushes him, giving in and smoothing Scott’s hair back from his face, lulling him back to sleep with the low pitch of his voice.

“I just want you to know,” Derek confesses. “That being around you and your dad? It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Okay?”

Scott’s voice is small as he regards Derek, wide eyes blinking slowly at him, “Okay.”

“Just go back to sleep,” Derek tells him, thumb rubbing over Scott’s temple.

There’s a cough from behind him, and in the doorway is Stiles, dressed now in a clean pair of boxer shorts and yesterday’s soft grey tee.

Derek stands immediately, making to move towards Stiles; Stiles moves first, however, and he’s standing in front of Derek before he knows it, separated only by inches and inches of open air.

Stiles eyes roam over Derek’s face, like he’s trying to memorise it, before he nods, quick, succinct and entirely dismissive.

He sways in, almost like he’s about to kiss Derek, but stops himself. Stiles blinks, before neatly stepping around Derek to move to climb in beside Scott.

Derek feels like an intruder as he stands there, Stiles has his back to him, wrapping the duvet covers around them, Scott is already lulling back into asleep, arm thrown over Stiles’ side and his face tucked in to his father’s chest.

So, Derek leaves.

He thinks about the life that he could have had with the two people in front of him, thinks of the life he _did_ have with them, even if only for a little while; Derek looks one last, fleeting time and he leaves. 

-

The sunlight glints over the parked cars by the curb. Derek slows down as he approaches the sign for Bobby’s shop. He glances out of the window, but he sees no signs of other people, so he drives on.

The garage is quiet; and it’s hard to accept the fact that only a handful of hours previously, he’d been laid entangled with Stiles in bed.

Derek bites down hard on his lip, shakes himself of the thought as he heads past the cars. He came here for a reason after all.

He goes towards the back of the lot, where the rows and rows of shiny vintage cars are lined up like pretty collectibles.

Derek catches sight of something in front of him and he stops, heart bottoming out into his stomach.

There, slumped against the bumper of his prized yellow Buick Skylar, is Bobby. His eyes are closed, head resting gently on the polished silver grill of the car, he’s deathly pale and there are two deep vertical gashes on the insides of his wrists, the blood that has been spilled from them pooling all around him.

Derek takes a deep breath, it sticks somewhere in his windpipe but he straightens his spine nevertheless, shoulders squared and jaw set as he approaches.

He crouches down by Bobby, touches a hand to his cool cheek. Pain wrenches at Derek from the inside, like a rabid animal tearing loose at his skin, he fists his fingers in Bobby’s hair and presses their foreheads together, tight and unyielding. Derek blinks away the stinging wetness of his eyes and struggles to breathe through the grit of his teeth.

There’s anger flooding through him, fast and steady in the pulse of his blood, almost drowning out the grief that rushes in behind it.

Derek knows what he has to do, knows _exactly_ who he has to make pay.

There’s another sound, somewhere, a little further into the darkness. Derek tenses up immediately, ready to defend himself, but what he sees there is Greenberg.

The kid is slumped against the wall, a pale hand spread over the bleeding wound on his stomach, the sluggish blood dripping over his fingers, ginger hair stark against the sickly pallor of his skin.

Derek goes to him quickly, two fingers searching out the slow pulse in Greenberg’s throat, holding on tightly to the curve of his neck as Derek pulls out the kid’s phone and dials 911.

He heads back towards the line of cars, finding the same gleaming black car he’d sat in after Argent’s botched up job. The trunk of which contains the black gym bag full of the job’s money, Derek had hidden it in plain sight, keeping it in Bobby’s workshop, right under the man’s nose.

Derek gets back in his Camaro and rolls the car over to the darkness of the street a block away from the garage, idling just enough to make sure that the ambulance he’d asked for does indeed come for Greenberg.

-

Waiting for Deucalion later that night is almost too easy. Derek parks the Camaro just outside the pizzeria that he owns, a big monstrosity of a thing, the façade painted in garish red and white, at a complete contrast with the glitzy adornments of the guests inside: men in close-fitting, tailored tuxedos and highly-polished court shoes, women in slinky dresses embroidered with decadent sequins that sparkle and shine along with the jewels at their throats.

The night overhead is velvet blue, dark and clear and there are two big Lincoln town cars parked in front of Derek.

He’s been here for almost two hours now, hiding in the darkness; beside him, on the passenger seat, is an eerily convincing SFX mask he’d liberated from his trailer at the movie studio. It’s hideous and it makes him look slightly like the bald-headed actor he’s stunting for, but it’s more than enough to conceal his identity.

Derek slips on the mask on when Deucalion emerges, drunk and fumbling as he heads towards the Lincoln, his chauffeur sitting primly in the back seat.

It’s so damn easy to follow the car through the back lanes of the city, and with his headlights turned off Derek feels anonymous, blending in with the night. He keeps a respectable distance, enough to not cause suspicion, not that Deucalion would be able to recognise him from this distance anyway.

Derek has his leather black jacket on, still caked with the hitman’s blood from a few scant days prior, it’s disgusting but it feels like armour; and he’ll take what he can get.

He bides his time, patient as ever when he drives, and he waits until the town car emerges on the lone road beside the beach, where the grass beside the right side falls away to rocks and crags and the beach laid out beneath it.

Illuminated only by the moonlight above, Derek speeds the car up, the heavy sound of the engine roiling in the air as he pushes his bumper into the back of the Lincoln, sending it staggering forward.

The surprise in the other car is palpable, both occupants turning around to gauge what’s behind them. Derek presses his foot on the gas, hitting them harder this time. The Lincoln sways on its wheels, the driver breaking hard.

The car comes to a stop on the shoulder of the Pacific coast, but Derek is already speeding off, going far enough so as that Deucalion and his chauffeur can’t hear him when he circles the car back and slowly rolls down alongside the forestry on the other side of the road.

Derek’s car is loitering in a clearing, with a direct view of where the chauffeur has gotten out of the Lincoln, staring down the road Derek had disappeared into, completely unaware that he’s creeping in the shadows just opposite.

Deucalion is still in the backseat, in his impeccable suit, silver cufflinks glinting in the soft light of the moon. Neither he nor the chauffeur can hear the low rumble of Derek’s car, the noise being drowned out by the fervent crashing of the waves on the shore.

When the chauffeur gets back into the Lincoln, when he prepares to drive off, that’s when Derek turns on his headlights, two beaming shafts of light that command the attention of the other two people in the vicinity.

The light protrudes from the darkness of the forest, like two great eyes upon Deucalion, condemning him.

Derek slams his foot on the gas, lurching his car forward before he _rams_ into the Lincoln, hitting it just above the left rear wheel. The impact is momentous; the huge town car is lifted into the air and spun around at the same time. It smashes back into the tarmac beneath it before it flips end over end over end, over the cliff and into the sand.

The collision barely knocks Derek off course, and he handles his car hard, gaining control over it quickly before coming to a neat stop two yards from the cliff.

He gets out of the car, standing tall in his grotesque mask at the cliff edge, staring down at the pulverised Lincoln below. Among the carnage is Deucalion, his immaculate suit bloodied, but he’s still alive. 

Deucalion unbuckles his seat belt with shaking hands and crawls out of the twisted wreck, body making heavy indentations in the sand.

Derek heads down over the cliff, feet catching on the rocks and mounds of hard sand before he plants down firmly on the beach. Deucalion has gotten to his feet by now, stumbling off towards the sea, but Derek doesn’t hurry after him, like a wolf attacking it’s prey, Derek approaches carefully, confidently.

Deucalion looks behind him as he stumbles, eyes widening as he sees the calm gait of Derek pursuing him. He keeps trudging on, but he’s badly injured, slowing down all the time.

Unadulterated fear shows in his face now, clouding his reason, and Deucalion staggers towards the crashing waves, a pathetic last attempt at evading Derek.

Deucalion’s waist deep in the water by the time that Derek's standing by the coastline, silhouette hard and unyielding against the backdrop: broad shoulders, strong arms, a tapered waist, all clad in black. It’s a huge contrast against the large bulbous mask on his head, illuminated starkly by the stars, a dissonantly blank expression that never changes.

Deucalion tries to wade out further, but the waves and the undertow are an impenetrable wall, the ocean dragging him back each time he tries to move back.

Deucalion's attempts at escape become more and more feeble as the ocean exhausts him, snuffing out any hope of escape, and he finally turns to face Derek.

They stay like that for a moment, gazing at each other, Derek silhouetted against the white sand and Deucalion trapped in the ocean. Derek isn’t sure whether Deucalion recognises him or not, a man like him must have many enemies, but he doesn’t care either, he’s not here for an ego boost.

Derek wades into the water with no hesitation, while Deucalion has no fight left in him, body weak from the crash. He stares at the masked man, desperation marked over his face as Derek wraps his hands around his throat.

Deucalion can see his eyes now, and it’ll be the last thing he’ll ever see, Derek is sure of it. They’re particularly memorable, his eyes, Derek’s mother had always been proud of them. They’re pale green, the palest of the colour but undoubtedly vibrant when incensed.

Deucalion stares and stares into the impassivity of them even as Derek forces his head under the water.

-

The sunlight has long sunk, like it was never here, the neon cityscape has come to life and the streets are a sea of glittering lights.

Derek is standing on top of one of tall buildings in the city, watching the cars in the multi floor parking lot opposite move like ants in a giant concrete hill. It’s quiet up here, with the noise, of the cars rushing down below, nothing but a distant hum, comforting and constant.

He’s long dried from the sea and the city air, whilst warm and slow, beats through Derek’s lungs like ice. He takes a deep breath, long and deep, and then another and another.

Derek’s been here for an hour, maybe two; mind whirring with possibilities and dangers and half-formed plans.

He's standing as still as a shadow, dressed in his blood stained leather jacket and his trusted gloves wrapped around his fingers, and he’s thinking. He can’t go into this, whatever _this_ is, without a solid plan, and it’s not so much for himself, but for Scott and for Stiles.

Derek has to make sure that this ends _here_ for them, that they won’t be forever wondering where the next hit is going to come from, or when or from whom. Derek needs them to be safe, and he brought them into this, it’s entirely his responsibility to end it for them.

He feels their absence more keenly than he thought possible, Derek _feels_ for them more keenly than he ever thought he’d ever care for anybody else. The fact that both Scott and Stiles have affected him more than anyone else in the past decade and a half is a true testament to the calibre of their character, and to the fact that Derek’s deeply, irrevocably in love with them.

The realisation that he would give his life for them, for their happiness and their safety, is not one of shock or surprise. It’s quiet and reverent, like there was never any other option other than wanting to wake up beside Stiles everyday, to see Scott grow up with them.

It just simply _is_.

It’s something inside of Derek that settles justly, like the final piece of a puzzle or a lock sliding into place; the feeling of the protectiveness he feels over Scott and Stiles is, by now, as familiar to Derek as the gentle creak of his leather gloves stretching over his knuckles as he reaches for his phone in his pocket.

The dial tone steady and droning, it’s ringing is stretched and monotonous: blaring once, twice and then it’s picked up with a clipped click.

“You know the story about the scorpion and the frog?” Derek asks, his voice firm, balanced and low.

There’s a silence down the line, deep and unfathomable. Derek waits a beat, and then: “Your friend Deucalion didn’t make it across the river.”

Now, he’s not usually fond of over dramatic statements, but this isn’t the thugs and the lowlives and the dealers that he used to threaten. This is bigger than them, much too big for Derek himself, and the surprise that he’s still breathing is still freshly settled beneath his skin.

This time however, Derek is pretty sure that his meaning is easily understood.

The man on the other side of the phone is none other than Peter Hale, the late Deucalion’s business partner. Derek’s met the man only once, but the marks of his works lie all over the city.

Deucalion was powerful and terrifying, and larger than life itself. He was a boisterous, self-stylised Demon Wolf who terrorised the city into doing his bidding.

But Peter, this _Peter Hale_ was something else altogether.

He was not a danger that Derek, nor the city itself, could see. There’s no doubt that he was the one truly behind the partnership, the true businessman in the face of Deucalion’s elegantly thuggish conquering and pillaging. Peter is sly and deadly, like a serpent in the green-green grass of your own backyard.

His voice is smooth, but strangely casual in a way that Deucalion’s never was, like he’s smiling through the fear he instils.

“I think this has gone on long enough,” he says to Derek, finally speaking. There’s a gentle tinkle of ice blocks against glass, a delicate sip. “You see any reason for it to continue?”

Derek keeps quiet.

“What do you say we meet,” Peter suggests idly.

“Why?”

“Well,” Peter says, and Derek can almost taste the smirk on his lips. “You and me, and your boyfriend are the only players left on the board.”

Derek swallows hard, heartbeat picking up its pace. He bites down on the inside of his lip, so hard he almost doesn’t hear Peter ask:

“How’s that for a reason?”

It’s not like Derek can refuse, not when Stiles is being threatened, so he doesn’t even bother pretending to deliberate, “When?”

“Tomorrow,” Peter decides, humming a little in thought through the line. “There’s a place on Sherman way; it’s a restaurant called _The Great Wall_. You know it?”

Derek does, but he suspects that Peter knows that already, given Derek’s chosen profession.

“Three o’clock,” Peter tells him, condescension pulsating in the easy cadence of his voice. “Try not to be too late.”

-

The hours pass too quickly to be real. The sky turns from a deep shadowy blue to the lightest dustings of salmon pinks and oranges and reds in what feel likes minutes.

The restaurant is large and ostentatious, not that Derek was expecting any less. It’s blazing hot in the afternoon and there are no customers to be seen. He walks in with no trouble at all, though in his dirtied clothes he feels more like a child at a gala than anything else.

Peter Hale is there, sitting by himself and facing the doorway as he admires the colour of the rosé in his crystal chalice. He’s wearing a well-fitting suit, a heavy linen napkins draped across his lap, looking completely at home amongst the luxury of the restaurant.

Derek slides into the seat opposite him.

Peter barely acknowledges him at first, tilting his glass as he views the way that the light hits the softness of the wine.

“Did you bring the money?” Peter asks idly, gaze cutting from the glass to Derek, mouth quirked in a lazy smile.

Derek doesn’t smile back, instead preferring to stare at the man from across the table. Peter doesn’t seem to care.

“Here’s what I’m prepared to offer,” he says, leaning forward to place the glass on the table. He folds his hands beneath his chin, resting his head on it like a benevolent god. “If you give me the money, the boy is safe.”

Derek can’t help the flash of incredulity that courses through him, eyebrow quirking in disbelief.

“ _Forever_ ,” Peter continues, regarding Derek. “Nobody knows about him, he’s completely off the map.”

Peter straightens the thick tablecloth, adjusting the silver cutlery before he looks up at Derek beneath his lashes, “Unfortunately, I can’t offer you the same.”

Derek remains impassive, it’s not like this is a surprise to him, much to the contrary: he’d _expected_ it.

“So, this is what I would suggest,” Peter offers carefully, voice barely switching from his original inflection. “We conclude the deal, we’ll shake hands and you start the rest of your life.”

He stares down hard at Derek, any sense of warmth or humanity present in his eyes vanishing at once, snuffed out like the flame of a candle.

“Any dreams you have, any plans or _hopes_ for your future? I think you’ll have to put that on hold,” Peter says, voice cold and imposing. “For the _rest_ of your life, you’re going to be looking over your shoulder.”

Then he shrugs, looking for all the world as if he has no choice in the matter and is truly sorry for it.

“I’m just telling you this because I want you to know the truth,” Peter continues, trying to add in a superficial tone of sympathy, of regret. “But the boy is safe.”

The meeting, if it can even be called that, lasts no longer than ten minutes in total and soon enough they’re heading out into the parking lot.

Peter strolls at a leisurely pace behind Derek, and Derek hates having his enemy at his back, it claws at his skin, but there’s nothing else he can do.

“Where’s the money now?” Peter asks when they stop in front of the Camaro.

“It’s in the car,” Derek says, rough and unprepared, it feels like forever and a day since he’s spoken.

Peter quirks his head and Derek pops open the trunk. He’s parked at the back of the lot, so a fenced area for the garbage half hides them. Derek takes out the black gym bag from the car; Peter barely looks at it, his eyes trained on Derek’s face.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Peter exhales, saying quietly, “Come on.”

Derek tips his chin, knowing exactly what’s about to happen as if this were a script for a Hollywood movie.

He reaches out to give Peter the bag at the same time that Peter’s hand snakes out from his suit pocket, twisting a sharp switch-blade into Derek’s gut.

It pierces hot and sharp, shoving Derek back on to the back of the Camaro with the pain, blood pulsing together with adrenaline and flooding out of the wound in his belly. Derek barely has time to catch a shocked breath before Peter is pulling it out, prepared to stab Derek again.

But this time, Derek’s ready. He catches Peter’s wrist, using his bulk to crush down on the bones, slowly forcing the knife up to the other man’s throat.

Their eyes are fixed on each other for a moment, but then the blade pierces Peter’s neck, sinking in deeper and deeper.

Derek twists the knife, if only to end Peter’s life quicker, to extinguish that horrible mix of surprise and pain in the mobster’s face.

He drops Peter to the ground, leaving him to bleed out slowly, slowly into the gravel beneath him.

Blood seeping through his shirt, Derek picks up the gym bag and puts it back into the trunk, slamming the door shut.

-

Derek parks the car in another enormous parking lot, hundreds of different coloured vehicles gleaming all around him.

He climbs out of his car, wearing his leather jacket over his blood-soaked shirt. The cut is thin across his skin, but the blade was long, digging in deeper into Derek's body.

It means that he’ll bleed out much slower than if he were stabbed with a usual blade. Derek isn’t sure whether to thank his lucky stars or finish himself off instead and get rid of the constant, tiring pain in his stomach.

He walks to the back of the Camaro, kneeling down to hide the keys behind the left rear wheel, drops of blood dripping on the tarmac beneath him.

Derek gets up again, setting off through the maze of parked vehicles, he takes out the burn phone he’d bought the day before, typing in Stiles’ number by heart.

He stops himself just before he presses dial, clicking over to send a text instead.

 _Stiles_ , Derek writes, the blazing sun beating down on him where he stands in the long corridor of glinting cars. _It’s me. Just, read this, please. JJT 108 is the licence number for my car. I’ve left it in the parking lot on the corner of Culver and Lincoln._

Derek turns around, surveying the lot.

 _Section M 10,_ he continues, _There’s a bag in the trunk with some money, keys are under the left back wheel._

Derek’s finding it hard to breathe now, typing with difficulty, but he needs to do this one last thing, for Stiles. Sunlight glitters on the roofs of the parked cars, dazzling Derek’s eyes.

 _It’s yours,_ he types. _It’s safe to keep it. Please, stay safe._

Blood seeps through Derek’s shirt as he presses send; he’s been standing here for far too long, droplets of blood in a puddle beneath him. All around him are Chevys, Dodges and Fords, but Derek trudges on, looking for that one perfect final ride.

His skin is deathly pale, his eyes a haunting shade of grey. His breathing is erratic and laboured but he keeps walking through the maze of cars, casting his eyes from one vehicle to the next.

Finally, he stops in front of a beautiful white Mustang, but he’s a little unsteady on his feet.

Derek climbs in to the front seat of the Mustang, and he sits there for a moment, catching his breath and taking shelter from the world outside.

From inside the car, the maze of vehicles seem to stretch out forever, Chevys, Chryslers, Fords, the history of America on wheels.

Derek pulls out his own pocketknife, slowly opening all of the blades until he finds the screwdriver. He starts with the left side of the steering column, and then he gets to work on the section below the turn signal.

There’s heavy strain on his face, but his fingers are steady as ever, like a master at work. Eventually, he breaks into the ignition device and leans back into the seat to take a rest.

He’s planning on getting out of the parking lot before Stiles shows up, and Derek knows Stiles will, because even _he_  himself could garner the undercurrent of impending death in his words.

Stiles will come, and Derek needs to not be here when that happens.

He wants to move but he can’t, remaining as stationary and immobile as the car he’s sitting in. Derek’s face is completely still now, so are his eyes, heart slowing down; and when the darkness begins to overtake his sight, he looks almost at peace.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna upload the last one now! Glad you've stuck with me guys! :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, very short epilogue you guys, but this took so long, partly because I was debating over whether to finish it like the movie or do my own thing. And the fact that I'm back at Uni, and that, well. I may or may not have started ANOTHER fic whilst writing this??  
> I don't know what's wrong with me! I must be stopped!!!  
> Anyway, I'm going to take a shower because I've been in bed all day trying to finish this and I've been going stir crazy! Hahaha, so a final read-through/edit will happen after that - if you guys find any typos do please let me know!  
> Hope you enjoy!

-

Derek comes to with a hard stinging slap across his cheek and a face hovering much to near his face.

He startles, his head rearing back into the headrest behind him. It takes a second, two, three; but he's suddenly and violently aware that there’s still a gaping wound in his stomach, that he’s still hanging half out of the front seat of the Mustang and that Stiles is in front of him.

Derek stares at him for another long second, half convinced that this is some post-mortem dream, but there’s a sharp pain in Derek’s belly and Stiles’ flannel overshirt soaking up the blood, Derek’s blood running in cascades and rivulets over the pale skin of Stiles’ hand; so he figures that this is real enough. 

“Derek?” Stiles is saying, voice urgent and panicked as his other hand comes to rest on Derek’s neck. “Listen to me, okay? Help is coming.”

Derek shakes his head, the foot hanging out of the car sliding on the tarmac as he tries to sit up, Stiles holds him down.

“Not-.” Derek coughs, choking in his own blood, the acrid taste of it strong and hot in his throat. “I don’t want-. A hospital. I’m not-. Not in-.”

Stiles nods along with him.

“You’re not in the system,” he supplies when Derek’s words fail him. “I know. I mean, I guessed you wouldn't be.”

The hand holding the fistful of material against Derek’s wound squelches as Stiles adjusts his stance.

“Scott’s in the jeep,” he tells him. “He’s calling his nurse, Melissa. She’s the best damn nurse I ever saw, Derek, and she’ll get you out of this.”

“No,” Derek protests, voice feeble and weakening by the second. “Stiles, I-”

“I trust her with my _life_ , Derek,” Stiles interrupts, voice hard. Derek only then notices the way that Stiles’ mouth is strained white, how his eyes are wet and red. “I trust her with my son, so I sure as hell trust her to get you out of this.”

Stiles sniffs, wiping the tear tracks on his cheek on his shoulder before pressing the staunch more firmly against Derek’s belly. A movement catches his eye and he looks towards where his Jeep is presumably parked.

“Scott, get _back_ in the car,” he barks; he stills, staring until Scott apparently does so before turning to Derek.

“How did you find me?” Derek asks quietly, blinking slowly at Stiles. “I was, uh-. I meant to leave.”

“I followed your trail of blood,” Stiles spits, angry and scared. “What the hell were you doing, Derek? What the hell were you _thinking_?”

“You’re safe, now,” Derek says in lieu of an answer. “I took care of it. Like I said I would.”

Stiles stares at him for a long, long while, eyes bright and wet as their gazes catch. 

“Come with me,” Stiles blurts, he looks as surprised as Derek feels.

They stare at each other for a prolonged moment, brown eyes on green, but then with more conviction, Stiles repeats. “Come with me. I’m taking Scott back to my hometown, this tiny town in the middle of nowhere, Derek. They won’t find you there, even if they wanted to.”

“Stiles,” Derek groans breathlessly, shaking his head, closing his eyes against the dizziness. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“You’re already living off the grid,” Stiles continues, bulldozing straight over Derek’s warnings. “You’ll keep your head down, and they’ll never find you.”

“You don’t _trust_ me,” Derek retorts.

That seems to give Stiles pause, and he looks down at where his hand is covered in Derek’s blood.

“No,” he admits quietly, he looks at Derek. “I don’t, but you _have_ been the one keeping me alive.”

He bites his lip, shrugging lightly as he tries for a smile, “So, I figured you’re not all that bad, right?”

Derek swallows tightly, pain making his voice nothing but a rough whisper of a thing, “I don’t know what you want.”

“I want you _alive_ ,” Stiles tells him, eyes boring into his. “For now that’s all I know.”

Derek nods slowly, resting his heavy head on the warm leather behind him when he can't hold it up any longer.

Stiles licks his lips, touches his free hand to Derek’s cheek, fingers fluttering down to check the pace of his pulse.

“I can’t guarantee that I’ll still-,” he breaks off, coughing awkwardly, though he doesn’t move his hand from Derek’s throat. “That I’ll still want you when I’m done playing nurse or whatever.”

Derek raises a single eyebrow, and Stiles chokes out a laugh, the tears gathered in his eyes wobbling a little before falling over his cheeks.

“Not like that, you goof,” he says, lip trembling when he sinks his teeth into it.

Derek gazes down at him, at the moles dotting his cheek, the paleness of his skin, the pink softness of his lips that he remembers so well, “You were the best thing that happened to me.”

Stiles snorts, but there’s bitterness amongst the playfulness in there too.

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure that I made your life about a thousand times harder than it should have been.”

“It’s not the only thing you made hard.”

“Oh _god_ , really?” Stiles chokes on a wheezing laugh, looking up at Derek with amused disbelief in his face and a fond grin on his lips. “Really, Derek? You decide to make that joke _now?_ That was terrible. _Awful_. I can't believe ...”

Derek chuckles, wincing when it forces a glug more of blood out of his wound. But it doesn’t matter because he got a smile back on Stiles’ face, and that's what he was aiming for anyway.

He lolls his head on the rest to look at Stiles; “It would have caught up with me eventually.”

Derek gazes steadily at Stiles, even when the darkness is fuzzing out his periphery.

“And for the record?” he tells Stiles, voice lowered into a conspiratorial whisper. “You were totally worth it.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Stiles chides, but Derek can hear the undertone of fear crackling beneath it as clear as day.

“Like what?” Derek asks, he panics a little when he realises his world is all darkness, but then he remembers that he shut his eyes.

Stiles’ voice is muffled, distant, “Like you’re not going to make it.”

Derek smiles lazily, bitterness tracing the shape of his mouth. He hums absently, there’s no use in pretending anymore.

He thinks he hears the rumble of another car’s engine, but all he's concentrating on is Stiles and the way that his heat floods into Derek’s cooling body. Stiles’ voice forms around Derek’s name, yelling for him, _pleading_ , the syllables of it stretching out into the darkness after Derek.

-

To say that Derek is surprised that he ever wakes up again is a vicious, _vicious_ , understatement.

He blinks into consciousness slowly, lethargically staring at the white plaster ceiling.

Derek’s in a room he’s never been in before, in a place he has no recollection of and that should really make his hackles raise, it should make him tense and lash out.

He does freeze for a second, a lingering reaction from years and years of manipulating his environment for utmost self-preservation; and he thinks he would probably have instantly lashed out, if not for the soothing voice coming from his side.

Derek’s on the wall side of a double bed, a turn of his head reveals Scott and Stiles lying beside him.

Stiles hasn’t noticed him yet, he’s murmuring quietly to Scott, dragging his fingertips through Scott’s thick curls.

Scott has his back to Derek, his fingers wrapped around the thumb of Stiles’ other hand, and he seems to be just about to drop off into sleep, going by the slow and easy cadence of his breathing.

“... then after that, we can go to Mrs Wilson’s for ice cream, yeah?” Stiles whispers, smiling a little as he carefully massages Scott’s scalp. “How about that, huh? I think your Grandpa will be particularly happy if we do ...”

Derek tunes out the words Stiles says, it’s too much of an effort to try to distinguish each separate word and place them in cohesive sentences. Instead he watches Stiles, blinking slowly as he watches his brown eyes, the way his lips move, lets the sound of his voice wash over him.

Stiles’ voice falls lower and lower in volume, the fingers in his son’s hair slowing down. They hover in the air above Scott’s hair and Stiles stops speaking in the middle of a sentence, eyes roving over Scott’s face.

When Stiles is satisfied that Scott is indeed asleep, he carefully drapes his arm over his son’s side, gaze never straying.

There’s a second of stillness and then Derek ventures to speak, voice clouded with shaky disbelief, “I-. I’m _awake_.”

Stiles slowly looks up at him, watching him for a moment and then, he nods.

“You saved my life.”

“I’m just returning the favour.”

Derek licks his lips, “Where am I?”

“Beacon Hills,” Stiles says, gaze steady on Derek. “At my dad’s house.”

Derek lifts his eyebrows as much as he can in his fugue state; he’s surprised that Stiles would even let him near his childhood home.

“Melissa’s gone back to the city,” Stiles tells Derek. “She’s just going to pack some of her things and come back tomorrow. You’ve been out for a while.”

Stiles bites the inside of his lip, “My dad doesn’t trust you, he didn’t believe a word of what I’d told him.” Laughing a little humourlessly, he says, "I told him you got jumped, but he-."

Stiles sighs, shakes his head, “Just prepare something-. Something plausible because, my dad’s the Sheriff and, trust me when I say this, Derek, he’ll shoot you _himself_ if he ever finds out who you really are.” He smiles, "My dad's always said I've been too attracted to trouble for it to ever do me any good. It doesn't help that you look like you do." 

Derek’s heart ricochets into his chest, he lets Stiles's words sink in for a beat.

“Does that mean-,” he breaks off, overcome by a string of hard, agonising coughs. He tries again, “Does that mean, that … you and me?”

Stiles’ expression turns into something small and cautious.

“I don’t know, Derek,” he says, shrugging awkwardly. He rubs Scott's back for a long few minutes, “I just-. I don't know. Ask me again when you’re better.”

“I’ll ask everyday until you're ready,” Derek promises him instead, turning his head far enough to catch the flash of a smile on Stiles’ face.

Now would be a good time to say _‘I love you,’_ Derek thinks, but he hasn’t said it in a long time, isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to say it again.

“I want to be with you,” he eventually settles on saying. “ _Both_ of you, for as long as I can.”

Stiles presses his lips together, but there’s a smile hidden in there too, his eyes are soft and fond.

“Go to sleep,” he whispers, touching cool fingertips to Derek’s temple, running through his hair. Derek does so easily, his eyes fluttering shut.

He can’t really tell if he’s awake or if he’s dreaming, but all he knows is that for the first time, in a really long time, he really does hope he wakes up again.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I'm a stickler for happy(ish!) endings! My personal headcanon is that they'll probably get together in a year or two, after much, MUCH, personal development on Derek's part.  
> But, the ending can be whatever you guys want! I really like where I finished though, it's kind of up to Stiles and Derek now, right?  
> So, alas, we come to end of my second multi-chaptered plot fic and I couldn't be more proud! Hope you guys enjoy, and I sincerely hope you check out my other works. 
> 
> Sayonara! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this, I hope you had fun, in the meantime - if you have a little time to spare do check out my other fics!  
> See you soon guys! :) <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for Drive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147168) by [quietlyintoemptyspaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietlyintoemptyspaces/pseuds/quietlyintoemptyspaces)
  * [Fanart for Drive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147180) by [quietlyintoemptyspaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietlyintoemptyspaces/pseuds/quietlyintoemptyspaces)




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